My skin cackles in the heat
black sand, like burning coals
to walk over, an ocean too still
to believe it is alive

This is the long drive home
the memory of a heartbeat on a
television screen, fading,
sits in the passenger seat

This is our nightly entertainment
we take dinner at six, our throats
hoarse from screaming silently
at stars, from asking God to
have mercy, from asking fate
to detour. Take a break, on us, we say,
but we do not pray

Anymore. What is prayer? But the dull rustling of thoughts, the sins of a mother who worked two jobs but couldn't make the rent that week.
What is prayer but the heavy thud
of a heart

a heartbeat. Breaking up over static,
signal failing, reception blurred. This is the end, so they say, 'do not resuscitate', my father signed his name in ink. In blood.

We drive. We do not cry. We walk across the fiery beach and drink from the the salt soaked sea, to feel, to prove,

We are alive.
We are alive.
We are alive.