The world is pain —

the sound like knives in the side —

the word “endure” helps me

suffer the world,

suffer myself while I

walk barefoot on tidepools

of blood coral,

sea urchins, wet, dead

kelp and closed mussels (the silent

shell lips)

— the shallows of loss —

before I sink into depths of deep blue

waters, the blue of God’s

eye, unblinking, open,

shining, wet.

 

The pain suffers me to endure

redeems me somehow

leaves me dry, wet,

waiting, received.

 

I have receipts to show for it,

wounds on my feet, blisters

of a hard journey, a

slap on my cheek

when I was 13.

 

It saved me. It may

save me yet.