the familiar grave grit in my eyes
a forgotten unbroken roar of ocean under skin
betrayal caught in the blades of the ceiling fan
I open the curtains to the forgiving page
the storm in a cradle
the flickering leaves aflame
the bed porous
I remake movement every morning
poured into the shape of a shelter
from shame
a cup of hands
I cannot remember without a swallow
solitude a cool glass of water
unkinking the hose
after too many coffees
watering plants bathed in light
she got too close to the dying enquiry
it reignited
her throat caught fire breathing the text
a cup of water poured over the drain and constricted larynx
nobody listened to the content of my mother’s complaint
I did but she didn’t see me
the rain came down with the words
From Claire Gaskin’s collection, Ismene’s Survivable Resistance.