In the end times we court the silence

In the end times we court the silence
Hester J. Rook

scribble the tides on the palm of your hand, little child.  if
you suck up the sea and spit it out again, over and over
perhaps you will taste the spirit in the salt, lick
the deep-buried bones and baleen memories, grind
your teeth to limestone.  it is lonely, I know
you and your gummed-up breath teetering against the current
one eye fixed on the glow of blue.

deep in the pinpricked night, dirt-bound and testing, tasting
the weight densing my throat, I unfold you
with disquiet joy.  there is frost unravelled across your surface,
a webbing of petals split on a toothed breeze.  but the night
uncovers the full lemon glow of you, and I –
I am hushed beneath you, a puckering of thought and pulse, a liquid shadow.
the earth is empty, darling.  come with me.

Hester J. Rook is a Rhysling Award nominated writer and co-editor of Twisted Moon Magazine, often found salt-scrunched on beaches, reading arcane tales and losing the moon in big mugs of tea. Find Hester on Twitter @hesterjrook and read more poems and stories at