You’ve too many years
in dirt, you’re pooling,
a well. I have stayed the fish son, son
of the evening glide, my writhing
scales just under the surface. I’ve
pocketed the tide. If I nip you we unite
into one body, else you are me. I am a thief:
I come home to pitch and I take
the darkness into my lit
gills. I want to be reborn by movement,
to keep moving. Trust me,
you’ve been too many years
in the dry earth, the tired sear
and plant of land. But I have
an unknown wetness in me, a boiling
under the skin. Come into
the light of my open mouth,
worm or snake, un-legged
beast of the morning.  You’ll forget
what I did this for: The word perish,
then peril, the still and unwilling
sense. A vigil until the sea
closes again, above us, a fist or man
of arms.



Sara Moore Wagner is a Pushcart nominated poet whose work has appeared most recently or is forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins, Alyss, IDK Magazine, Reservoir, The Wide Shore, and the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, among others. Her chapbook, Hooked Through, was published by Five Oaks Press in early 2017. She lives in Cincinnati with her filmmaker husband Jon and their children, Daisy, Vivienne, and Cohen, where she teaches at Xavier and Northern Kentucky University.