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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