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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