Daddy grows with the stalagmites now;
suicide off white rock
where mourning breathes staccato
with all the vibrations of a cross
as my bones wash away into
The great Sargasso.
No body can birth me now
in this dissonant space
with bluish tides stretched
to the corners of my mind
that echo deep into the crevices
the cracks the creeks
I breathe them in
like a wretched ceremony
an ode to my two thighs
that bear the weight
of outlandish theories
of what it would mean to be alive
and I wake up in the spring
mushrooms and flowers and things
bloom from the tips of the fingers to
the bottoms of the feet;
I am thawing.