We live in the mouth

of the river

we swim between the lines

of our words

truth blurs honey in eyes

borne on backs

of sailors & farmers

& furniture makers & wives

who sung & cried

into their cooking pots

pretending the peeling of onions

was what undid them each night

 smiles that don’t  crack

 like plastic rosaries

women whose cells

live in our skin

pearls in our womb

amber in our irises

fired in past kilns

like Brigid a distiller

of triple fiery clarity

they slept with the noiseless

fusillade of despair

against their breast for years

We swim in the mouth

of the river

we live between

the lines of our words

swallowed whole

by the weight

of our becoming.