What the Ark Left When you poured out your love like ten thousand hands, blue-throated Shiva at world’s end, what remained beneath that ark of flesh but bright dorsal fins, eyes lit fuchsia in luminous dark, a world we call alien— wilderness in kelp, liquid animals transparent to the gill, limbs grown from bitten wounds— and your crescent-moon smile, your hand stretched out over the amniotic world to welcome us home.
Hannah Hinsch is a Seattle-based writer who has published essays in Cultural Consent and Ruminate, poems in Ekstasis and Amethyst Review, and has written for Image journal’s ImageUpdate. She was the editorial intern at Image for two years. Hannah finds that writing has always been a conversation—her work emerges in response to the word He has already spoken. She writes to witness, to be caught up in Him over and over again. She writes to be well. Find more of her work at hannahhinsch.com