Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

Caitlin Mackenzie

The Dive

Prayer is not language but my body recognizing itself — the curve, the bend. The gull in his hesitating, stunted dive, his ugly cry, sees the whole skin of the ocean. survive survive survive I don$#39;t have time to remind myself that I need seagull eyes. Arching my back in flight I'm weighty, unwieldy like a rifle. With tiny fingers, big triggers I bang against the sky, leave my ashes indistinguishable from stars and smog.