As the sea takes the shape of its anger,

blood’s form is its motion.

It is a moment and not a thing.

​

Silty like a river’s bottom, a million globes

grow into a breath, bear electric stone,

and bloom in the coral of our lips.

​

Not by your bidding, you have healed.

The green weeds between knuckles are

the purpose of our heart’s creation.

​

Its abundance is what we fear – salt droplet of our thumb –

should it turn the weapon of its making on us

and drown us in ourselves.