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A poem for Sunday

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The second time I had an abortion, only one person knew; we talked it over on the phone, exchanging calm through long-distance shapelessness, our flattened forms. Years later, we still discuss rivers we’d like to explore together. Once more, the only physical proximity between them is in their memories. In my ear, he reads off a variety of names:

Missouri. Platte. In return, I will say rogue.

Oxbow. Every time I’ve found out I was expecting, I’ve experienced a mixture of emotions: secretly, at first, like an end; then, only within the conditions of my possible, a bright color. I’m going to throw a yellow boat at you.

The dimensions are listed below. When we work together, we can see further.

We don’t trust an entire nation because its culture is foreign to us.

Even terms like “confluence” and “mouth” have been given new significance in relation to rivers. Where exactly do we store them within ourselves? I give a covert response over the phone because I’d rather no one find out. Hold on a second