poetry

tacey atsitty marked

We ripple into sediment, they wrote, as though we are greys  staggering the river bottom; milky hard and thrown about, not stained pebbles pieced together in the form of beats, curved and edged by strikes. Our light catches even in shards, from gravel. A channel sparks face and heart: they think charred skin and charcoal don’t shine. For a time ignited with wool tinder, this all leaves a deep hue isolated. It’s just now sunrise and silt sinks flint that once took the shape of a heart. Here we lie like pores of an arrowhead, awaiting the day when stone turns to water.

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