Graduating to Wet Stones

Queued for Buoyancy (for Chad) We try to keep one another from the steak knives. I saved him tonight, as he did me last week. But these scarlet frowns sneer from my wrist, tell of times before I found refuge. This harbor we reside in offers little amity, so we carve boats out of old furniture with rusty utensils - - skin is silent when it bleeds, and we need to hear our wretchedness dimmed through the shredded cries of fabric tearing while we unravel our grief. Yes, we are still floating, but raven waters know how to entice. The drowning is easy, it is harder to restitch the seams of our breath or mend our second-hand sails. But tonight the moon flows dripping with absolution, and for one more night we will row, worried seas distracting us from ourselves and the knife.

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