On a glacial path
of overgrown grass
I am told the weather pattern
hatches elsewhere.

Discordant swarms
of yellow and white.

I am traced to the beginning,
I am woven from a burning spool,
I am devoured and strewn over water
on both sides
of the exodus.

These dreams
do not belong to the day.

The riptide pulls us
from the shore
of all we have ever known
out to the very inscription
of our identities.

I rehearsed the backlash
even when I saw the
poplars phosphoresce,
even when there was a chance
I may be displaced to solid ground.

At times,
I cannot bear
my own fragility.

I pace a line of Alders,
requisitioning the theoretical,
refracting the sneer
of my own corrosive despondency.

I chase jackals
to the sacrement
of my undoing.

I walk through the barrage
regretting I wanted to feel
any of this.

through graceless pangs,
I pray for rain.

Copyright 2014


7 thoughts on “Riptide

  1. “At times,
    I cannot bear
    my own fragility.” Oh yes! And with such weighty thoughts, this narrator might think themself (I’m going to hate the new plural singular!) graceless–but riding the riptide all the way back from glaciers to poplar trees oozes grace.

    Liked by 1 person

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