South Pacific

He gave her fire

she promised him tears

the world drowned

except a few of her children

knew how to float, fly upon water

stretching out, her children

became homelands

tribes building cities

upon their spines

she watches from lighthouses

where sea hags turn on the lights

a beacon to keep his forked tongue

and snapping jaw from spilling out fire

burning up these nomads

burning her children’s backs

she remembers when he sang

soft lullabies waves lapping at her skin

he left her for the sky, a fleeting ghost

she sits there waiting

for him to swallow the sun

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