poetry

The Witch

An old selfie.

There’s a body in the water, holding

unconditionally loved, pre-existing

paternal reconstructed policemen.

There’s a body in the water, holding

justice, righteous preservation left

seven years unread.

There’s a body in the water, holding

tumbled, blond curls growing larger,

red seaweed layering messages.

There’s a body in the water, holding

buoyed skill lockers, mitochondrial

renaissance, unexamined by men.

There’s a body in the water, holding

punishment, breath accepted, body

lifted from the water.

The aisling act, the one-eyed keyed

messages, chains look back, bloody

tests, Grandfather’s Jewish screams

“Help me mummy!” Christ responds,

“You’ve no chains or churches, love

through me is to love the damned,

while God publishes your poetry.”