Spring 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 2 Fiction |


A little cool, you think, then the iron-scent takes you in, you leave your feet and let it—early summer chill easing its ripple across your chest as if this water never held a body other than yours—silk, silty touch, thick with minerals that knew you before your body was body at all—was nothing, pure impulse, wanting to be known, taken, sweet weight lifted alone out to the dark middle, place you always knew, as it knew you would find yourself here, wet, untethered, eyes closed, forgetting.   ▪ ▪ He already hardly remembered Kansas City or the Neil Young concert, though he was listening to Young's ragged whine as he drove, mouthing "Helpless," trying to trace an Etch A Sketch track home on back roads—north, east, north, west along section lines—the Decade CD on repeat—trying to keep steady, straining as if blindfolded, feel ing his way, then his cell phone broke in with the wrong notes. He shoved it across the seat."You get it, Ben, will ya?

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Debra Nystrom's most recent book of poems is Bad River Road, from Sarabande Books. She teaches in the Creative Writing Program at The University of Virginia.

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