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(previously published in   Eclectica)

I gather driftwood,
old shoelaces,
my wedding dress for a sail.
I take fresh water,
a compass with its needle quivering.
Wind pushes me into the sun
igniting the rim of the world
then burning out.
Stars donít help,
not even the big bear growling
his little lights.
Out here Iíll grow a tail,
forget speech,
find you in a fishesí cove.
Iíll drag you home,
a human boy,
lungless, water-sick,

      — Teresa White