“They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds.”
I was born among the bodies. I was hurried
forward, and sealed a thin life for myself.
I have shortened my name, and walk with
a limp. I place pebbles in milk and offer
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Said the Barnacle, You enchant me, with your carnival of force. Yours is a system of slow. There is you, the pulley and there is you, the weight. Your eyes wide on a hymn. Your deep song like the turn of that first, that earliest of wheels. Said the Whale, I have seen you, little encruster, in that business of fouling the ships. Known, little drum machine, you to tease out food from the drink. Little thimble of chalk and hard water. You could be a callus of whiter skin. You could be a knucklebone. You who hang on me, like a conscience.
Cecilia Llompart is the author of The Wingless (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2014). She currently teaches freelance creative writing workshops and divides her time between the United States and France.