Caitlin Roach

Plea

Plea

How when a body dies it becomes the body. No
mind to all the mouths who named it, who knew it
in quiet, who call for it now, unanswered. But
know it: bear the cells’ leaking out and pooling
where they’re pulled to, bluebottles lapping at
these final outputs, fur around their mouths
bloodied like winged wolves. Note them as markers,
makers beyond you. Watch the body age beyond it-
self, wage against itself, overwintered. Count the cracks
of cygnets hatching in June. Let the prayer come out
your mouth, just let it. The light will regain its blueness, I know it.

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