enclave, i

the enormity of this morning

seeped between my pause, i found

drowning occurs when head hits ground

and blurs the sound of mourning, torn

between the paws of being born

and the jaws of being found —a warning

shot through the head of a wave

goodbye, this is not

the anointed verse

it is ointment for the fly,

Iscariot tongue greased with gaze,

and steeped in curse,

steeple, i

the vanishing point of

chariot and church.

First published in Furies: A Poetry Anthology of Women Warriors by Eve Lacey, 2014