A Landscape, Fading

Rowan Tate

voice like an ocean, waves
throwing the weight of themselves
behind their own self-destruction,
their shattering laces the surfacing
face of the deep. the sea
foams at the mouth, spider-webbed,
gasping for breath—
and then it drowns again,
hands closing in around the throat:
the look in her eyes, a heartache,
there for a moment, then gone again
— some imagined thing.

she, alive in all the wrong places, a mass
made mute, currents
in chaos—her colors cold, the
monochrome static of time breaking
the mud of our bodies. lapping at the jetty
licking god’s wounds, chin sticky with
saliva. she has no end, earth
bleeds into the sky, she
is dying of thirst.

they tell me the waters are
receding. i am landlocked, i have
never seen an ocean, only
dreamed of it.

Rowan Tate

is a

Guest Contributor for Panorama.

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