where do the souls of the drowned go? | memories of my ghost sista

Tags

Now words are rare. Whatever synapses

let in the Divine are misfiring. ––

Neurons fail. Neural pathways do not please.

Now words are a struggle. I’m struggling

just to write this. Once I said I’d go turn

a tramp steamer into a library. ––

Sail from port to port, sharing that stubborn

love of books with all who live by the sea.

Now I’m struggling just to write this. Now

I sit in my chair and –– stare. There are no

books here. Words, like the water, turn brackish

each time I go down. Let me drown, somehow,

instead of this decline. Instead I know:

first I floundered, now flail and soon perish.

Tags

If we forget this kindness in winter
that is fine for it still remains. Springtime

persists. The new moon bulbs rise, no longer
held down by the mayhem of the night. Slime,

pulp and blood of a different kind birth;
the realm where there is no mercy. Nothing

can be reborn at this depth. With no earth
or prayer; where do the souls of those drowning

alone at sea go? Who will call for them?
Who will remember? These seasons, solstice,

new moons fix nothing. Love, where do you lie?
I will find you, raise you from this mayhem,

little fish, stillborn — — It was no kindness
when the sea washed clean your death-clouded eyes.

memories of my ghost sista