#23

I am broken by all the stories of sea, my Lord
There is emotional debris inside me, my Lord

The myths and people of the water are real
Ishmael is still haunted by it, not free, my Lord

You gave us slumber to make memories at night
How can sea people wait for nobody, my Lord

Their light above is not heaven, not the crust their hell
I’m tormented by what Kino was decreed, my Lord

I don’t know how people write about the war
Or dinghies, broken sails, and deportees, my Lord

They jumped into the water to escape prisons
So on festivals we tell stories of olive trees, my Lord

You must unfreeze your heart, answer your people
Our wayfinding is a plaything to thee, my Lord

And I, not precious anymore, tumbling on the inside 
Finds myself, too, unseen through filigree, my Lord