Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Breach

by Ann Keniston

 

I dared myself to go past the breach

until again

some little or great thing prevented me

 

and then sometimes without trying I felt a loosening,

was giddy and free

 

because to have survived means knowing

what it is not to have survived

and also the dumb luck of having been

one minute too late

 

or else a nearly contentless

lifting up of voice

 

kyrie

 

waves slapping the shore, moving sideways and up,

spraying foam all over the rocks.