The Valley

            by Lauren Aliza Green 
I took the boat out every morning, allowing my hands to skim the shimmering sky laid out against the lake's surface, never clear enough for me to see its bottom, or whether fish dwelt there, as the man in the tackle shop claimed. Monday followed Monday. I adopted a dog and taught it old tricks. I taught it to fetch, and waited for it to sniff my voice from the brambles. Spending each day in fear of its end, my naked body submerged even in thin air, the skin shapeless but soft. I rented an apartment in whose rooms strangers drifted before retiring their footloose lives. Same old couch, same old French molding. In the springtime, when the basement floods, I see our kissing reflections stretched queenly across the floor. I touch them in want of the past. They touch me in want of touch.
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