remix, aided by a spreadsheet

Is the pestilent pigeon to the peregrine
because they’ve fenced off the ocean and now demand tribute?
She is an underwater volcano simmering beneath a carpet
close to the mother. Observing the old enemy, other you.
I deserve nothing but rivers stirred in ginger,
Sunday morning, and the corridor.
What would I call you? Tongue sore and breath sour.

This way he can't ever leave us
a red scarf above the ocean.
Waiting to speak, to be fed forever,
a weekly anniversary of my nakedness.
For this waterprayer, the faster I pray. The sooner I sleep,
clear a path, and never return --
the scent of apples. It's how they teach me to be free.