Photo by David Cohen via Unsplash





Somewhere on the outskirts of the body
the gulls are trying their wings
                                                    on gusts of wind.
Somewhere the foghorn announces danger
at low tide and billows break
                                      over hidden rocks
the way sleep breaks
over the submerged cliffs
                         of consciousness.

I spill into the world all anew,
carried forth by the amniotic gush
                                                    of half-dreamed words.
No newborns are ugly,
though some turn out more handsome
                                                                   than others.
But who’s to profess judgment,
when we all are sinking lead, bait
                                      for what lurks beneath,
when the line
we hold in our hands
                         leads directly to the beast?

The morning is yielding
its foggy pastels to brighter
                                      tempera.  Soon,
I will slip into familiar skin,
utter the names
                         of these almost forgotten
alleys of veins and arteries,
learn to inhabit again
.             the labyrinth of my body.


First published in SWWIM Every Day, May 22, 2019

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