Anna Sysling
June 27, 2024
Someone asked me to whisper a secret to the big water
on the shoreline of Superior
hoping it would wash up along the Detroit river.
What would I whisper?
A confession? A spell?
I could start by saying that, on some days,
I know it’s enough to just be
a host to microbial relations.
I could say that my spiritual formation is a glittering Superfund,
a resilient mosaic of mushrooms and tarot cards,
that I dreamt of my ex and my grandma this week
and wondered if I’m psychic.
I could say that I am endlessly
molting, coming undone,
that I fantasize about a distant stony future,
where I am calcified
into a saintly conglomerate configuration,
that I stare at a screen witnessing so many atrocities,
my heart doesn’t know what to do
except cry while the sun drips across the sky like honey,
except dissolve into water
to touch something still and clear.