For Carly
Maggie Blake

In future memories I am thinner.
My poems taste like metal, salt,
a tongue against butterflies pinned
to parchment, old houses after winter. 

Feet tucked, I dive arced into swimming
holes I haven’t even seen.  Laughter following
curve, submersion.  I wait, underwater,
for language.  The slip beneath.  And then:

Arms reach across the deeper valley
of my side, a forearm pressed between
my breasts, fingers to clavicle.  Dissolve now
against the wholeness of my body. 

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