Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Exodus 7: In Writing

Rising, welling between the reeds
the rocks
the trees

Blood will have blood
all you buried in the deeps
a gaping maw
from which you cannot drink

it gushes
at toe-touch
pressed by the weight
fruit burst at your heart

a stench
of cries unheard
eyes unopened
decaying death
 of fish fed on the formless
flung to the water
before they could swim

what was stillborn
beneath the waves
swells between the stones
we are the ghosts that
laden the air
a sibilant smell

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