Miserere
It is my bouyancy, this quiet evil:
drawing me upwards, in this sea, this rest.
Resisting (as if it could not) the pull
of each of my hands, strained in deeping water.
Measures earned are measures surrendered.
The hard-beating of my muscles is fought
by air I hold in my own lungs, tendered
as a miser holds his coin: clutched, stored, caught.
My sin is ever before me, felt and
known by the shape of it, its sharp edges
pressing out, thinning skin, to rip, to tear.
My sin is ever before me: these hands
red from swimming, this face a grim rictus
breaking surface tension, gasping for air.
KMC 1/8/14
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