by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Blood-orange thoughts
I wished weren’t in me
escape. Lashing caprices
churn the sea around us.
My voice goes rough and salty.
Grace ceases.
Personal debris—
gathered, unspoken, unmerciful—
rises in the swells, releases
when there’s nowhere to flee.
Our every deficiency
floats on, increases
until we find ourselves.
Still here. Set it all out to sea,
no bother that the house is in pieces.