I can only pray underwater,
and only after god drags my bright white nickeled knees
across the dark virescent floor of the estuary,
submerging me with watery benedictions,
asking, is this enough?
asking, can you float?
Me, gleaming against the algae,
hair escaping into
murmurs the shape of current.
By the pressure of water
my arms glide back
seraphic,
my fingers catching in the sea grass.
Here, I pray for the sting of salt in my eyes.
Chin titled,
light breaking through water.
You know, all you can hear underwater is breath and the sound of the heron’s step.
The way the webbing pulls up against the mud, the intention of sinking.
I want the washing,
the ones babies get in utero,
gathering up all of our devotions and digressions against ourselves
before we are born into this world.
We arrive imperfect and howling.
We arrive wet.
Wound One:
Fingernails digging crescent moons into flesh,
unable to release a small arm.
Bring a salmon to that arm, one that has swam from sea to creek,
one who has laid eggs and tail flapped fertility into the rocks.
Skin that salmon once, then twice, to feed the child,
use those same nails to scrape the fish skin
so that ancient sea trails are embedded in my arms.
Wound Two:
The tied mouth.
Remove the threads carefully,
slowly around the corner seams, find grace seeping into the water as the prayer becomes articulated,
a small bubble rising.
I speak with fish.
I am not drowning. I float past the cormorant’s legs.
The fish say, “The next wound is language. We are not fish. We are silver and flesh and bones and curves of slick.”
Wound Three, as Taught by the Salmon:
Now that you are free
words will weigh like rocks.
Rocks are only evidence of water.
We open our stomachs and rocks tumble out.
This is where we will lay our eggs.
Shiny bright jellied eggs.
Eggs like words.
Forgetting who is me and who is fish and who is listening,
we spawn words against our wounds
continuing to drag our bodies against the rush of warm water
at the juncture of our confluence.
We kneel without knees
with new bodies given to us by our own work
as the birds and bears descend
to feed on our healing
so that the trees may know the river floor.
Kelly Gray (she/her) resides on Coast Miwok land amongst the tallest and quietest trees in the world. Kelly's writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Pretty Owl Poetry, River Teeth, Lunch Ticket, The Inflectionist Review, CULTURAL WEEKLY and many other swoon worthy publications. She's been nominated for both a Pushcart Prize by Atticus Review and Best of the Net by The Account Magazine, and her debut book of poetry, 'Instructions for an Animal Body,' is forthcoming from Moon Tide Press. She is a poetry reader at Bracken Magazine but you can read more of her work at writekgray.com and follow her at @_west_of_west.
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