Stowaways
Before the Creation, I hid
in god’s left index finger,
counting lakes and rivers.
I descended with the angels
of forgetfulness into a flinty
neighborhood twenty miles
south of Eden. It was there
Noah was leading animals
up the gangway. I pretended
to be an ant and so was numbered.
Every ship errant, every mast
and wheel like a dry shadow
sheltered me; my appetite
for knowledge could have
given me away, but I was
clever, silent as still water.
Was it fate to sail forever,
to not set foot on land?
What pleasure is there
in always being unseen,
hidden, unknown? Like
the moon and sun, I walked
thin as death. Days like secrets,
a face untouched, feet doomed
to wander, and a voice
beyond the air.
.
Stink Eye Magazine 