The Sin of Faith, #45

When they found my sobbing skin
on the beach, unable to say
a word and mumbling notes
of an incoherent song,
they said I was hunched over,
my forehead splayed on the hot
sand, my back burnt and peeling,
no sign of water, no sign
I had moved in the three weeks
since my ship capsized. But how
could I have survived three weeks
without so much as a sip,
a morsel of food, not a nap
under the nearby palm tree?
See, I remember nothing.
I know there was a sailboat,
left from port, and then a storm,
and then deep pummeling waves.
I came to this morning, with pills
and tubes stuck in my system,
machines pumping and whining.
My boat is gone, but what more
I miss is the echoing
in my head, the quiet voice
that sings to me, calm Ocean
calling my name, assuring
me I am One, assuring
me of a God’s existence,
of love. Now I have come home
to this land of belonging,
to this place of things, only
to remain empty. This house
has luster in the daylight,
but at night, when I’m ready
to sleep I feel myself
washed ashore, washed clean, landing
in the pose they found me. Me,
without saying a word, not
consuming an island left
in front of me, me not moved
from the fear she would leave me.
Me, with a hollow echo
I can’t explain, not reclaim,
a voice of promises, faith
that my skin is worth cleansing.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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