A Splash of Mortality

A tribute to recently deceased queer poet, Andrea Gibson

Andrea.
It drizzled.
The muggy fog closing in.
There I stood, panting from my run toward the cliffside in need of some refuge.
I looked left. Right. I headed for the colossal boulders edging the tide’s constant.

Sweat clung to my clothes.
My feet shuffled along the shore, a thousand rocks beneath my heavy step.
A singular roundness of white.
It beckoned my hand.
“You okay?”
I lifted you toward the fog.

“Go on. Watch me fly.”
I sprung you.

you flew

You pierced the fog, popping its surrounding oppression.
A seal’s head appeared on the horizon.
The ocean, once an oyster, cracked open, inviting my body in for a drink.
Was it you, Andrea?
Telling me, “What are you waiting for?”
I abandon my shirt, shoes, socks.
The water drank, encasing my emerging vessel.
A baptism of grief.

a baptism of grief

I rose, bringing a hand cup of water toward my face.
A splash of mortality.
I cried.
Death brings me to the ocean.
As if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do in this life.
Gibson.

-s.g.

No one edits my writing. I’m no expert in language use and word order. I ask for your grace if you stumble across any errors or mistakes in my written pieces. The same goes for my voice recording as I may mispronounce some words. On both counts, consider it part of my art; an imperfect expression plucked from my heart and placed onto your screen. Consensual hugs.