The end begins with our roughening—
Calloused fingertips against granite and steel.
Pruning skin stinging with the kiss of salt.
We climb into salvation,
Pressed against a marble tympanum,
With the waves lapping at the lintel.

Kisses are not honey, caresses are not tender.
Instead, we carve our hearts with bleeding claws.
Our teeth cut and bruise,
Tongues lapping and eyes stinging.

We are the salt of the earth.
We are the light, the brimstone, and fire.

Yes, the end begins with our roughening—
But the beginning ends with the ocean made of our tears,
And we drink freely, hungrily.
All is welcome here.