Frail is our vessel, and the ocean is wide
ST. AUGUSTINE
Lord, this is not your world. I am not yours
but also not mine. Not your passenger.
Not your saint at the helm, the machinery
of my hands turning like clocks.
Not your reliquary. Not your daughter
in oilskins, hauling up the iron cross
to follow the directional light. Water slinks
wolfish in my wake, foam gathering
like shorn light—the hours pulled under.
Look there: a fish flails on the deck, halved
into a scaled book, its milk and blood
spilled for cockroaches and birds. Look
down: my chest is opened, the wind plucks
its thin, blue notes. Soon this ocean
will rise, will come pouring into my ears,
my throat, will tear the bones from my hands
and the boneless fish of this tongue
from my mouth. Lord, when my blood
reaches the city, it will be the water
of the river they bring to their mouths
and the name they thank will be yours.