for Aya at fifteen Damp-haired from the bath, you drape yourself upside down across the sofa, reading, one hand idly sunk into a bowl of crackers, goldfish with smiles stamped on. I think they are growing gills, swimming up the sweet air to reach you. Small girl, my slim miracle, they multiply. In the black hours when I lie sleepless, near drowning, dread-heavy, your face is the bright lure I look for, love's hook piercing me, hauling me cleanly up.
Kim Addonizio - 1954-
He'd left his belt. She followed him and threw it in the street. Wine: kisses: snake: end of their story. Be- gin again, under- stand what happened; de- spite that battered feeling, it will have been worth it; better to have etc… (—not to have been born at all— Schopenhauer.) But, soft! Enter tears.