I dismantle the ark board by board,

splinters wedged deep in my nail bed.

I drag nails loose, rust-black from water wear.

I set the pairs free. Swim.

They look back, pitied.

Forget the dove, burn the branch.

The smell of hide is suffocating.

Water rushes in the gaps, fetid and sweet.

The bible does not acknowledge

the millions whose last rites were the flood.

This lesson is mine and

mine alone in this post-flood

forty day baptism-ic divide.

I gather then the floaters, the earth,

my past, metallic as blood,

I gather ideology as the stone

gathers lichen. I gather sacrifice, willing,

as father to son. I gather sex,

dark as a cave, fragrant as a deep wine.

I gather ancient untold rhymes.

I gather all these things and I name them.

These I gather and I taste the salt.