On a hippo tooth—roots up—perches a mottled stone. The molar once flashed
by the most dangerous animal in Africa presents a pebble, retrieved off Patmos.
The beach where St. John, pastor and poet, likely walked, welcoming apocalyptic revelations. Face-up, the rock, bears an “S” hieroglyph, a reminder that saintliness
and the satanic are often embedded where land meets the sea.

Perch proudly island stone
on molar roots. Perhaps,
the hippos’ foul mood—
attacking at will any nearby,
will be calmed by your sea
polished offering. After all
the huge creature’s closest
evolutionary relative is a whale.
And the choice to go landlubber
ages ago, never took it far
from mud—a slippery exchange
for the sea’s stormy ambivalence.

Flipped up russet and tan-buffed
gem of salted stardust—summon
what heals more than hurts.
Link what’s prophetic in us the way
St. John ended his Patmos vision:
“Come whoever’s thirsty.
Take the Living Water, freely.”