by Bethany Brake
Under the surface, only puzzles
out of control, the cut of darkness bites
and I won’t wait when Oracles and Gods
assure destruction, because nothing changes.
Pinned by every lie, I’d settle once
for honesty, but it’s all just perspectives.
The angels came to claim me, but
I found myself lost, the sea
at last having called me off,
leaving only bones and teeth behind
down to ashes, down to dust and dirt
distilled from tissue into nightmares of waves.
Hindsight is always unsound,
and for a million days I sat
gathering wool, gathering dust,
breathing and burning in the sun until I had
to look away, eyes pulled back
by physics to die a pretty death
under picture-memories of marigolds,
nothing left but a flash.
On my headstone they carved
the number thirteen,
but it stood for nothing.