The Opposite of Ichor

By Amy Jarvis

in August i taste like salt. my tongue sticks

out of my mouth like points on a compass, a

slotted spoon of metal blue. my mother spoon feeds

me offerings of brine so when i disappear under the

waves, i can grow gills & adapt. the summer has been

running backward since March. i imagine myself ballooned

& streaming, a lifeless form oscillating under the waves.

i forget who i am in the months i don’t live seaside. i’ve

become guilty of practicing inverted divinity. my hands

have only learned to plunge downward, my soul a

direct path towards the center of the earth. last month

held so may hurricanes they’ve run out of names. i watch

the birds flit & soar outside my window, wings piercing

against the baby-blue sky. the sun no longer in eclipse,

staring up at a bright weapon that doesn’t care how many

victims it claims. i’ve forgotten the narrative but my

body is producing chemicals that poison at origin &

my heart is halved & dissected on the operating table. such

small hurts belly-up & the birds come in, all vulture, all teeth.

i am still waterlogged & azure, collecting

salt with my mouth.