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Drowned
by Amanda Auchter
Below, the mud huts of shell
fish tumble under my feet.
The sun loses itself in this river,
swims down to a point
and then stops.
The willow roots stir up sand
or rocks, dislodge in light.
Once, I slipped from the surface,
my mother’s arms
stretched out against the wide
river mouth, her call
a low tide in my ear.
Overhead, a sparrow
carries silence.
There is nothing but the gray
skirt of sky
overhead. The wind hovers,
hunts for a place
to land. This is how drowning
is, the push-pull
of something, not water,
but the surge of a voice,
a bed at night,
the rise of your chest
against my shoulder slope.
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Follow
by Billy Newman
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