Darker Ways to Drown || Sara Aultman


by Sara Aultman

brackish water stains your mouth, salt cuts old wounds 
never quite healed right on that whiplash tongue, 

you’re speaking to the tidal choir and the midnight sky feels velvet. 

how many colors of your name must die for a baptism to take? 

not but three mornings past and the glassy waves bore another you, 

lungless, waterlogged, lilac-bright as early dawn. the burial was soft. 

whose words swim aquatic behind your teeth, 

if every shade you shine floats back to shore 

and still you testify, a holiness, holiness 

open throat for the congregation 

scream the faith you need, that one day you’ll see 

in the coastal mirror as it ebbs your wet ankles, 

the rose-heat complexion of something alive 

and something

still breathing. 



SARA AULTMAN is a Seattle-based writer of liminal and arcane things who can be found on Twitter @TheSaraAult. Sara's writing is featured in Olney Magazine, Small Leaf Press, Fahmidan Journal, and HAD with more forthcoming in HELL IS REAL: A Midwestern Gothic Anthology.


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