If I bury the knife
in the sow’s dark entrails
then read what pools
beneath its dying head, will the end
that must nevertheless come
be persuaded to change its course?
If I whisper one more prayer to the sea,
will it wash an answer back amid the tangle
of moon jellies littering the beach?
They have no bones, no brains, no hearts:
only transparent skirts, wide and frilled,
etched with flickering light.
[LAG-other-response date=”08 15 2013″ url=”https://www.vianegativa.us/2013/08/open-sea/” title=”Via Negativa: Open Sea”]