Still Life on a White Stone
Kyle Andesron

Turned from the shore, I hold the mirror.
My lungs erase my face, the sky.
From the shadows the horses come to me.

Along the river, moss blows like someone
Calling my name, the creatures’ breaths
Gliding over me like wax hands.

The fog disappears, a whistled melody.
Behind me, I float like a tossed dagger,
My mouth full of water—jaws cradling

A stilled sparrow. Then the mirror drops.
The clouds are broken bones,
Dripping marrow. As I leave, fish rise

To the surface like a thousand echoes.
I feel them swimming inside me, my blood
Passing through their gills. Here, they eat,

Shimmering. The horses watch, their eyes
Like falling apples. Behind me, nothing moves.

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