Marjorie Maddox (bio)

here before the period
that wants to end every sentence
you stuttered into the night air
just to hear God rattling around
in your shaky syllables. Or here
beside the ellipses bobbing along
on the Sea of Galilee minutes after
his footprints stepped on ship or shore
anticipating your question mark,
which—let’s face it—never really ends
anything, just begins a cavalcade of queries
separated by anemic commas
that look more how you feel, a half-hearted
wag to the deity before drowning,
your head separated from hope by semantics
or a slip of the pen. When the weather
kicks up, it’s hard to tell, lightning
a jagged exclamation point
for the dry to see by, every buoy
capsized. But let’s get back
to the capitalized beginning
of Alpha. For starters—
swim toward the rhythm
of sense. When even that
washes away page
and paragraph, swallow
that first letter of Word. Breathe
in syntax. Begin again.

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