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Text
Backstory
Is there something in the rushes?
Golden, serrated, whispering.
The thing that sees you
The blue eye.
It’s what you were
Before you were this
That makes you feel sick.
It’s right there in the muck.
The heron does not care.
One leg tucked up
It must catch its catch
To survive, feather white.
If only you could catch
Yourself as easily,
Small fish.
Brackish salty water.
Reach down and pick it up.
That thing.
But you are revolted.
Salt on your lips.
You have no idea
Of the small gods
Whispering all around you
Voices rippling on blue water.
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