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Ariadne
The Loss of Theseus
by Amanda
Auchter
This is the pulse that sheers through
my morning hour-the dull cry of gulls
who pause on the beach
and pick through the dregs of low tide
for remains left by the desertion
of the sea.
I stumble into the pools of your tracks
along the smooth mouth of shoreline.
You were here,
left these deep pockets among jags
of shells and driftwood. The wall
of green parts and tumbles.
The sea is an oracle, a looking glass
that holds the last half-wave of your sails.
The swells point upward,
tip and rock along the storm-tossed,
wind-tossed waves. I call, wait
for my echoes
to branch outward. The low keen
of my voice is silenced by the horizon
that pulls at you,
tugs you toward its hazy curve.
This is the arc that I hold onto:
the last relic of you
that surges through the fiery lunge
of the Eastern sky. At last, you pierce
the bright cornea
of the sun. I uncurl with the black
ribbons of clouds that trail and spin
after you, chase down
the rough wake of your absence.
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Woman With the Sharp Wrist
by Daniel Petrov
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