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Transitory Floats at the Bottom of the Pool


Let’s say Ralph Ellison’s invisible man woke up a woman

Hard to ignore it (don’t you think?) hard to ignore that panic


floating up to the bottom where the other sex lives, unsafe

as latex paint poured down a storm drain in the middle

of the night—



You fill me

like drops, gum drops

grape, lemon, cherry & lime, little sugar dumplings

pliable as Play-Doh

lodged between my teeth—


You fill me like feet

spreading in black patent leather shoes

heels turned over too many times,

arches flattening when the foot strikes ground


As if this isn’t enough, I press you

from the hollows of my bones,


point toward magnetic north & try to swim