Into the sea, holding a fish,
you are settled, and do not think of dropping her.
You dream at night, sometimes
It is a hungry dream, made
in the grey-turning-of-things,
of the tide,
of the pause to remember
the way things float in a net
with the doomed fishes
and sink with them.
I’ve named her,
(You say it is too early) but
I know you love this
Annnnnnnnnnnnnd, something(s) not-mine that I love:
by Joshua Beckman
you forgot my island.
She Considers Trading Her Secrets
by Catherine Pierce
These girls, she says. These girls, I could smite them.
These girls, if they knew about the tree inside me, or
the rabbit trap, or the plastic doll parts. If they knew
about the dog I walk each night in my dreams, her big
teeth showing, her paws like dinner plates. If they knew
how I like knowing she could eat me but chooses not to.
That is how I feel safest. These girls. If they saw me lit
by the dome light of my station wagon. If they saw me under
his hands during the ice storm. What would they say?
Would they kiss me? Would they share their licorice
and chlamydia? Would we talk about equations as if
they held the world? Oh, these girls. They are dumb
as bicycles. Their eyes like tree knots. Their smiles
like paper. If they knew that my world is not their world,
is gloaming-colored and damp, echoes with howls and bells,
floats in the space between the desert and the past—
would they ride the carousel next to me? Would they,
for once, give me the best horse?