If it wasn’t for the prickly, quivering flame 

Or the smoke ribbon signalling when it was snuffed

The entangling roots of a plant suffocated

Or the way that it drooped, then crackled, and pussed 

❧

For a shroud of grass blades that prong from the ground

The fox wail in the nighttime, and to know that it’s mine 

Or for the fetus bird with its yellow mouth caved

And how it gapes a familiar, white dreamy sea-wave

❧

When the churn dislodges the embedded debris

And lays it all out on the surface before me 

And the foam over-folds to collapse on the rock

I peel away, fractured as a book in the water

❧

I wring out my stomach like a rotten, wet rag 

Paper cranes burst from the droplets and dissolve on the sand

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash