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Tuesday, April 3, 2018


Why is it drowning? Why unpinned
floaty locks, inset with fallen
leaf&filth as if any buoyant trash

were jewel? Why painted pale—
not pale and bloated? Why more adored
minnow-lipped than when she

breathed air, spoke? Why love we
such dank ophelia? Why rather this
only dead only girl? I won’t. Any-

more I prefer nunnery. For me, mine.
My crush of crones know several rivers--
one is age. We row it sure, dip&pull.

We throat coarse boatsong thru lips
unstriving since birth towards blue.
And so this knot of women made

of stuff that twists&writhes&maybe
thwarts but does not drift: us sisters
learned to swim. Deepened eel-alls we

--our slimy lengths of ladyparts slick
with the knowing-how and the not-
dying. I think it’s prettier, this life--

fermenting dough ‘neath crusty scale, if
you’d just watch it move—in purposive
rise&fall&rise not fluid rot. Want to

see? Quit the mown flowers. Come
to the strangling woods where we'll rarely
kill you if you’re civil. Watch us stagger

water-sated from banks trailing our few
forked tongues of willow or nothing at all.
They're shame—the switches that welt

a drowned girl. We strip them to straddle
the night, river a-drip from silt-thick
thighs like unshed tears: hers. This is

a weather you’ll come to know. And
above—in shrieking starfucked flight—
this is how we mourn her.