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He memorized a poem, years and years ago; recited it when phantom hands ghosted over his skin, repeating the lines until he didn’t feel like he was going to drown on dry land. It’s served him well, Mary Oliver's Wild Geese.
Now, Peter repeats the lines of the poem in his head, over and over. The closest thing to sacred there is, in a high school bathroom stall. He thinks of how a girl at school brought her rosary, once, explained how she used it; maybe the poem is like his rosary, each line a bead, and he goes over them, over and over.
Over and over announcing your place/in the family of things.
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