(Vivaan Trivedii/Unsplash)

I’m afraid

of who it is

that made

these things.

The surf

repeatedly blasting

the sand

to waste,

the weird slide

of seagulls

along

the breeze,

the smashed shells,

stranded weeds,

the bells

of shape-shifting

clouds. The all-

maddening sound

of churning.

A will

wrathed with

delirious light

alone

could carve

a foamy,

flickering line

and then expect

small beings

to dance

on it

lovingly

till death.

Magda Andrews-Hoke lives in Philadelphia. She studied theology and the arts at the University of St. Andrews and was a 2019 recipient of the Frederick Mortimer Clapp Fellowship for Poetry.

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Published in the February 2022 issue: View Contents
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