by Renwick Berchild

To keep a body inside the ribs of a behemoth roaming
along the shores, we question this, this dying within
a larger shifting breathing form. And this,

this rolling, this captivity, amongst the innards
of a faceless creature; with frequent gasping and clutching
we tarry, and hurry along the tongue-like road.

We press upon edges, sleep upon unforgiving bone,
blood red summers choking us with heat.
We start fires, that summon thunders, and quick we race
upwards toward the moaning peak.

I have dreams,
of white stones that speak, and break hard upon the light
and thresholds of the dark. Deep burrows wait
with winding streets, withholding all my desires
buried neath the erected ramparts.

I have dreams,
of winters without end, of birches that sing
the lullabies that sunk my ships into the bends. How much
I wish for forests to grow
within this cavern that slopes with each step of those great legs.

Morning rose, laid over the belly, a gentle madness
to sweep beauty into this humid land.

No makers here, no makers, no hands, to carve my name
unto the purple rock, and split the organ open
to hear music once again; I hear only the heave and gulp
of a monster carrying me, towards an ocean
that will swallow me and my world
wholly up.


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