it is the duty of parents to name you,
to store read-only instinct
in your shell of foreign flesh.
this seems disruptive at first
but I go naturally, native to me,
eastward in the south and
west when north,
fluent but not fluid in motion.
I have not yet been to Finistère,
the ‘end of the earth’,
to centuries-old fog and an art
to breaking bread.
to where huge trawls of the dead
flow slick and glassy-eyed
in waterfalls of tumbled selves,
one net to another,
to where my line was cast.
those still living at the end
of the earth complain
endlessly of weather patterns.
the dead don’t feel rain
but drink it. they have no
instinct for names.
keep digging, they urge,
dig
not to discover
but to experience
the wet
uncovering of things.
Miguel Jacq is a French-Australian writer. He lives in Melbourne, Australia where he runs (some say ruins) an I.T business. For a time he co-edited the online journal Blue Hour Magazine. His work has been published by The Blue Hour Press, Dagda, Deep Water Literary Journal, Kind Of A Hurricane Press, The Poetry Jar, Vox Poetica, PRISM Journal
and Visible Ink.