First WaterShirley Stephenson
In the empty ballroom, a man comes at his block of ice with chainsaw, then knife. Breast, nape. He carves her fingertips with a scalpel, dreads the one wrong cut as if this was her beginning and end. He cannot apologize for such instinct. We have faith in what we desire. At sunset, a single electric light may lure a season of hatchlings away from refuge. A collarbone ebbs in the glow of candelabra. Haven of sweet- water and brine, the woman has never been this body. She too, is unable to apologize. Water always returns to water.
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