Water and its sounds taking rounds of de-devotion.
I wish I could say it was gentle, that it would listen
when I mimicked the sun.
What stayed was weight
washing over, a light twisting in front of my eyes
like hot gold.
I wish I could say I didn’t know heaviness
could go beyond a body.
I sit there, hand on bone, bone halfway
in the trunk, trying to get it to go in.
Every time the bone sticks.
Every new bone becomes a knowledge
of a death too slow for rebirth.
Shereen Rana (she/her) is a devotee of poetry, nature, prehistory and literature. Having made permanent residence in all forms of art, she seeks to shape some herself. Her writing delves into feelings of loneliness, anxiety, nature, time—while also trying to evoke comfort. More of her writing can be found on @pepsihalftimeshow on tumblr and @carnterm on instagram!