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Sara Michas-Martin



The yellow trees on shore she tries not to see

as any kind of explosion. The captain is faceless.


She has not been supplied a wheel.  For now, she’s

blank and unmoved at the sight of so much water.


Fish dart rapidly inside her.

An ache is slow to surface. She told him


the bubble had already formed teeth. It was clear

he loaded this news remotely.


She closes one eye to let the water come out.

She holds open the other to take the water in.


She wants to honor the flood, she does.

Her plan to make many plans


is the small child clutching the towline

at the back of the boat. Already they have forgotten.


The child lets go and is left there.





My version of nerves with pistols and botched leaps

comes from a textbook I consumed too quickly

and not precisely. I read backwards and skip around

because I’m attracted to a leaking boat or maybe

the ingredient I need is late or out of balance

in a distributed way, for example, Australia,

or Hanoi where I was alien with my huge exposed legs

then overlooked, finally, after outsmarting

the magnetic pull of bicycles that kept landing me

on the street selling only brooms. No one else

seems to be wearing puffed lungs on the outside or

jogging the two-track with glass ornaments

for the communal tree. Some kind of intrusion always

in the meantime of the main event. It contains an axis

like a zero left behind and makes most things

disposable. Kindest regards to the cats

let go in the stadium. To everything abandoned

or saved for a different time.



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