“I contain multitudes”  —Walt Whitman

fugitive and scaled captor
linked by appointment
more than accident
more than appetite

here I am
mammal mother with child
some kind of finned Mary
wailing through hospital halls
get this thing out

here I am
the ark adrift
culled herd-and-gaggle home of cryptic promise
some kind of roe, multitudes, stars in galaxies
deep space is cold, like my friend Sheol

Tarshish where it feels good, a favorite fedora
little man, you will swim into miles-below places
where life-breath is liquid, where inky void swallows light
sans rainbow, sans dove
your nephesh a dark star

friend,
press ballpoint Bic
into a triplicate of days
and you are left with
impression impression impression

just as I have taken you in—
protected from indelible drench, suffocating writhe
so will Sister Shrub cover you with salvific shade—
an unlikely temporal Tarshish
eventually lost in antiquity

lo! the indigestion
find me an altar in these waves
is this fear in me
or love

Photo by Imleedh Ali on Unsplash