To Love

When the priests, in their beads and capes

stitched from feral hides, led me under

the New England pines, they whittled the tip

of a sawn limb         to gently press

up through ribs, and the ventricular hollow,

and on that spit, their meaty hands

dipped me in the river,

and as promised, I felt nothing

ever again

until you found me.

*Originally published in Sage Green Journal.

Michael Daley lives near Deception Pass and has published widely in journals and anthologies. His most recent collection of poems is Of a Feather (Empty Bowl, 2016).



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