I was at the dinner table the first time
Someone told me, "God
does not exist."
I haven't had a dream since then.
sometimes, I imagine dying like it's
a good magic trick-
sometimes, I imagine
dying and it feels like driving home
often, I want to pry open the mouth of a lion
cut out her tongue, and wait for her
to fight back with just teeth
what I mnean to say, is
i'm nothing to scream about.
nothing to shine a light
on or give a pair of hands to.
what I mean to say, is I'm just
another way out of the ocean.
what I mean to say, is
I drove home from my own baptism
fully believing I had just narrowly
escaped drowning."

– "girl is asked about herself for the first time", by spencer wollan

tell me about home,
how the word tugs and turns,
the heart sinking, as it would,
into waters it soon forgets.
how the soil was damp,
and looking for my hands,
i bled,
and it was prayer.
my roots burrow, currant-red,
my roots, cut and frayed.
the first time i prayed,
i repeated my name till
it rang
like something here and true.
the first time i loved,
it was an execution.
it surged, soared, sorely
missing where my doors
barricaded and held me in.

Ocean blesses us with their poetry once again