I dip my hands into the cold blue basin of the sky.

Sink or swim, or so they say, but the ancient stones 

stare unblinking in the riverbed. 

They whisper of being porous enough

to drink what drowns you.

I hold my breath and creep along. 

No one sees me out here in the wild thicket of my life, 

weaving baskets, gathering green.

I learn to chew on the blackberry of my heart, 

swallowing both ink and seed. 

And why shouldn’t the day end 

with the taste of metal in my mouth? 

The sun hammers copper across the sky, battening

against nightfall.

In the distance, a wet bird shrieks for nest and worm. 

The once tender body of a small animal 

lies like alabaster in the brambles, its ribcage venting time. 

I pluck a flower no one knew had lived,

clear it of its roots, tuck it gently behind my ear.

And so it is, each day life accumulates this way.  

A thousand endings stacked. 

Layer upon layer of soft, sweet violence.