kenosis

Once, in the middle of the night, I watched
a sea turtle bury her eggs in the sand,
the moon a perfect spotlight.

I crouched with my cousins & some local boys,
breathless & still,
as is done in the presence of something dreadful
or holy.

And I thought,
turtles have breath.
And I thought,
I have never thought that before.

After she had covered all of the pieces
of herself, she thumped the sand
with her heavy flipper,
turning to the water.

When her silver skull was lost in the sea,
all that remained was a trail in the sand
from her empty belly.
That too was soon covered by wave.

What hope to expend all of yourself.
What hope to never return.

When the moment had passed, we lingered there
in the moonlight. And then, silently,
thoughtfully, placed pebbles & stones
on top of the nest.

I came back the next day;
stones still there,
as audacious & certain as the light
of morning.

waiting room

I feel the moth inside my skull
beating its flaky wings.
There are no words for this,
my hands are shaking like vomit. How
people behave in times of crisis is entrancing.
I perch like some heretical stoic,
wrapped in the illusion of prayer.
You want to talk about heartbeats?
I am in the middle of the ocean here.
Inherently, the moth begins losing
its scales all over the seat cushions.
None of the other passengers notice,
inert in their own winged waiting.
The man at the table keeps averting
his hands to anything but his own.
The woman in the corner keeps using
her purse like a giant mitten.
The couple on the sofa keeps gripping
each of their four eyes tightly closed.
Inherently, we gain more followers.
We welcome all new passengers
to our palpable grief parish.
Welcome, from our heap
of antennae and ashy wings.
We hate that you are here
and we hate that you will leave.
We are in the middle of the ocean
where everything is wing. How
people behave in times of crisis is enchanting.
Can you see how stone I am?
How granite rock still I sit, staring.
The painting on the wall,
I burn a hole straight through it.