May 2003 / Volume Four / Issue Two
Joy Reid

His body flops against hers.
As always at these times, her mind journeys home
but not to the highway-facing flats of these last eight years
her mind is salmon-programed
it returns
to tufted toes, wet stands of lichen-coloured seaweed.
Mermaid hair
she believes, she believed it to be.
How clearly she remembers the chain mail eruption
of a writhing silver form.
Her awe
as it muscular flapped for survival
and terror
when he clubbed it
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