Arc-less

Just a flicker

Just the spark that lost flame

A call in the dark without thought of the voice.

When we are taught to pray, it is safety, heritage,

A line across water soft brown hands will never see.

When you learn to pray, it is the lake to your thirst, a life line when every phone line goes dark.

When she looks down into the sinking depths,

Down to the bone and the chain,

to her own blood on the steeple after a great flood,

she learns to sift, to let snakes slither by her thighs without snuffing them out

to balance on her tongue wine and sword,

to conjure spirit and truth in her own undelating image post baptism.

At once:

A bishops daughter with too much bible between her teeth and never ending questions

and

A fearless woman with too much war to be silent

wearing the strength to ask

and now one thing to fear,

unquestionable certainty in any direction.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.