Shantih Journal 3.1 - Page 41

for snacks, for sleep, to watch darkened light plunder the growing thunderheads. Birds fly in off the tsunamic sea that is hooked like a rubberband around God’s thumb. ‘Do you hear that sound?’ Tia asks, leaning her shovel into juicy soil. Nothing from the birds but the moon, small but good shepherd, screams against our never-dulled blades. Frogs, the ones we haven’t dissected in our hurry, waddlecrawl across sticky leaves we’ve tossed aside. Blades buzz in the sepia breeze. Tia gets to the ground, wrists, elbows, triceps, ear. “Here.” She handprints the pulped dirt. “Here.” I see the scream – blue holes in my vision – before I feel it gash my throat. Tia buries her face in the slit shoulder of earth. It is painful to believe that every rock is sacred because nothing survives love. 41