“They called it a wedding reception. I knew it to be their last chance at touching me, the groveling, clawing beasts. Soon my fullness would blow them all backwards, leave them shocked on their bottoms with scraped elbows in the hot, dry dirt.”
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“The click the pen made before the ink came out and the click of the door
when it opens cover the sound of the paper folding. The paper hides in a uniform pocket.”
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“The lighthouse fog horn
carried, around that time
Longfellow had come and
written a postcard to the sea, diest,
right before Annie Maguire expired.”
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“The jellyfish have been
here all night, you think, cannot move
their jelled selves from the sand.
They do not act, just contain—whirled
and purpled stars, their glistening
gritted surfaces.”
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