Mother

conVERSE

Forgive my tongue. Slack as eel,
spilling vowels like stray specks

of sea—slimy and unintelligible.
Mass of gray. Overhead, gulls

making mass. Collecting themselves
and breaking apart, sunset the

blood between. Oceans spaced.
How many times have I wrestled

this tongue into Yours? Gripped
its dumb edges and contorted each

accent to spear right? Missing,
splotched. These scriptures, laced

with Your dark brush. Would I have
known if Saturday classroom? Sea

of black heads, clamoring. Breaking
rice for You. The stove, simmering

green. Gulls beseeching waves for
tossed fish. I’m looking for any

morsel, by Your mouth. Tang and
clean. Feed me, slowly—and I’ll

cast, soon enough.

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