Nat’l Poetry Month 5/30

Francine hangs lines of trout outside her window. This way, I know, she writes, what darkness is. Francine fears she’ll forget to sing to him. I like the bend of things, she writes, scales. Of her fish. Of her father. Francine believes heart break bends back to this. They left their mouths open, she writes, and that is right. The world of dark was meant to get out. Into my light. My thighs. Into fields with their lines. Bending, she writes, into me. Francine hangs trout. Calls St. Gabriel. My body his sea, she writes, in dark I hear singing.


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