Dirtier than Pigeons

We were dirtier than pigeons--
Our empties were compostable,

But we didn’t want them to
sink
into
the
earth,
we wanted them to
sink
into
us.

Whilst we were just searching for coastlines,
where land,
where life
stops.

The water danced without music,
and it made us feel dirty--
The way in which the tide was up above her knees.
The water danced without music,
and even the glacial streams glittering into her
made us feel dirty:
pious empties that were nowhere
near pure.

Composting ourselves
as baptized blasphemies,
feeding ourselves
to the water:
It was more beautiful
than suicide.
The complete reversal of our births;
crawling back into the womb
of  Mother Earth herself.

My hands couldn’t save us,
while you said you were
treading darkness,
while you said you were
falling into trenches:
treading a blasphemous baptism.
My hands couldn’t save us,
and it made us feel dirty.

We sang to our empties without music,
seducing them to
sink
into
us.
Siren’s songs in the key of passé,
the tide was up above our knees,
begging us to
sink
into
her,
whilst we were just singing to coastlines;
singing to somewhere
where water,
where life
stops,
singing to pious empties
that were nowhere near pure,
and nowhere near
compostable.

We were dirtier than pigeons:
ectopic pregnancies suctioned to the ocean floor,
aborting ourselves in alternate realities,
begging our Mother
to stop being so dirty,
so that we could feel clean.

My hands couldn’t save us,
and it made us feel dirty:
We were dirtier 
than pigeons,
but we were
more beautiful
than suicide.

Author's Note

unfinished