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Monday, December 14, 2009

In her sea

She was waiting for the child. She was both the ocean and a ship upon it, lying belly up on the mattress, sailing through salted dreams. One night, her ribs rose and separated like continents dividing, splitting at the ocean floor. As they split, her skin stretched and fiery magma seeped into the gap. She awoke gasping. After this, she found she could bend in new ways, her loosening joints allowing her, even as she grew increasingly heavy and round, to move through the waking world like a slippery eel. Another night, the child dropped, and the sound of humpback whales signaled through her dreams. She tossed in the bed and listened; she tried to depth-sound the small one through choppy waters: How deep, how far away? And how shall I know you when you arrive?

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