low tide

i have not written anymore
gently tossed pebbles to the base of my lungs, i
pressed lips to trachae and thought “breathe”, just
to hear the tremor of imprisoned breath, feel
the helpless silence of gagged absence.


oceans swim, did you know? at low tide,
the waves forget for all the creatures bobbing
in her. she wonders how she is so tired among
all of this stagnancy, pregnant and never
birthing, a mother never crowned.


i have not written anymore
the last words i had were etched in my elbow
but that story has since eroded by the gentle waves
of depression, and i traded clack and scratch
for the sound from my lungs
pressed to my ear.


i am in a dark cave now, because the wise man
does not trust memory. you will not remember
if you’ve been moved or are moving. the barefoot feel
of a flower petal, the flower petals life beneath
the burning sun, the sun’s fear of it’s shine,
the stem who pushes pushes pushes away the gravity
wet soil, compact and hungry for purpose, the comforted
wormed ripped by the child who screams. the mother,
moved and moving.

even if you only have images, you must

-Stephanie Ambroise


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