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                       The Rest Is Water



And soon there will be more of it, from the runoff


of an unexpected sun, or increasingly large boulders


dropped into the sea like Archimedes in his bathtub.


The world is old, but you are not done with it, even


with its lamentable shortage of tigers, its sleepless armadillos


under sunlamps at the zoo. What you wait for is a flood


of your own, a string section to explain what this is


that’s happening, and who is this man who loves you,


and what color is his hat. You’ve longed exclusively


for good and evil, never expecting this, like all your other


rules, to abandon you when most urgently required.


What were you going to fill your sleepless nights with


but your growing concern over the helium that’s running


low, and where is the barn you were raised in that you


would steal balloons from sick children to extend


its supply? Who are you with nothing else to do


but love him back. When the ark pulls away, you won’t


be waving your lacy handkerchief goodbye


from the upper deck, or from the ground, but in the water,


rainbowed in oil-slick with all the other ugly ones.


       hilary dobel

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