By the Waters of Ripliancum

Imagine a boulder teeters,
one push away from tipping
past the edge. You itch
to see it fall, to hear it crash
into the ocean below.

         Before first light,
         I wrap my child in strips
         of old blanket, strap on
         wooden breastplate, close
         tiny fingers in my own
         around obsidian-studded club.
         I say, “When a soldier comes, swing
         for his head like a pokolpok ball.”

Imagine the boulder topples past reaching,
accelerates toward a small boat
now interposed between water and rock.
You tear the air with your screams,
but there is no way to stop it now.









Inspired by the Come, Follow Me readings for November 23-29

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