Ryan Morton
Shower water drips in the name of the father, son,
And holy spirit from the negative space between
Palms I baptize you. Jesus Christ, crucified over
The doorway, it’s awfully late now to do this,
But I need to ask:
Do you ever think of Gesmas down below?
Who bothered to autopsy his body? To write him
A prayer? No issue, A mirror now: Guilt rips my
Fingertips like old curtains tearing away, the bone
Snaps to let light in; knotted nerves, plum veins
Unfurl; Tissue layers snap, organs split open until
I am two now four eight sixteen so many
Dimensions float up here with my new world
Prayer; yet no soul: I cannot to see what it is
I am.
Eventually I come to rest, a collection laid
Out all around my room. The world
Feels so much more pleasant taken in parts.
Resettle, regather: in the bed my nearing hands
Forgot to make. Sometimes I dream about what
Remaining here would mean for my eternity.
Disjointed lost blurred sleepless passive hopeless.
Everything I feel now,
Put together.
Ryan Morton is a third-year from St. Louis, Missouri studying journalism and creative writing. He like staring at birds. Sometimes he wishes he were one.
