Brackish

After the wet season, before
the midsummer night's drought,
I flight for the floodplains, where
the northern downpour bleeds out
and sweeps its love to the mouth
of my lungs. I sleep in the crux
of an oxbow, let my dreams flux
and flow fractured, deltaic. For this
is the way I piece myself apart,
a resolution, my absolution
in a new avulsion.

During the day, I move south
towards the river mouth, picking
pebbles, coral fangs from the riverbed.
A loose tooth is a common truth
in these parts. Bones are febrile,
eyelashes are made of chalk, salt.
Tears turn brackish. They cake
and crack on the flats of my hands.

This is my Pangaea,
this swollen geography,
this slacken land.
The point of no return.

Here, all else ends.

By dusk I meet the saltmarsh
and dehusk, grow halophytic
in the nightlight. I pull out
my hair, my fingernails, and
fill the gaps in my spine
with reed rhythms, saline.
The final rite: turning flesh to grass.

Tomorrow, morning mist
will drag the whitewash back,
ashes to ash.

And I will walk the water,
with a pocketful of stones
and something new to throw
beneath the glass.

* * *

Spite is a dangerous vice, but I still think I'd rather crucify than learn.
I hope this hurts like it's supposed to. As much as you hurt me.

.

Let's play spot the obscure literary / lyrical / geographical reference! Any excuse to indulge my love of random geographical terminology... xD