by Amanda Tumminaro
Do not shine the light upon my ship.
It is merely wandering on my green seas,
I am a few petals short of a rose,
though a seed has been embedded.
I partner with the same fish,
the searchlight now upon my secret:
I am an Electra of sorts,
playing a bow against her ribs,
singing out for her father
and until that time,
accepting any substitution,
as if he will appear before the rapture,
O, Holy Father.