WEBVTT

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"Self-portrait as Your Voice
Trying to Stop an Echo."

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"Wherever tidal water
foam salt water flowers

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against stone darker, we
echo our pledge to vanish,

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led to a death.

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Grown young, our tears learn
of radiance outside gravity.

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And we will say we are angels
in the virgin's light--

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fairy tales we
repeated to each other.

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As children, our bodies were
such species wholly present

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tense.

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In the garden where yes
it's the only island,

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untenable surface swarmed
in light, water striders,

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and mauve strings of
sea moss pattern grammar

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in the thin wind's swill.

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I tear water from our chest.

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Swept in thorn, our lips
stained with agarita,

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I feed the chalice vine.

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Suckering our nature
before we were organs.

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If this, the gray-green leaf,
the gift led blind is deity,

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our language is soaked
in the blacks brine.

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The black sings a
music, nudity banners.

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A field of scorched
arms of what was once

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acres of pine soothing suit.

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Over flowering world,
separated we are.

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Why?

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This field of wracked hunger
where the lion's mane once

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carried the calendars, no
longer over life, but of life.

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We burn the resin
surviving the eye.

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We build altars.

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From breath's broken
splinters, I count your breath.

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Remember our skin as the
silence making silence real.

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A garden where yes
is the only island."

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