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  • Writer's pictureAnna Claire Hodge


Updated: Nov 14, 2023

We toasted to love on a houseboat,

your hair spiraled tightly by the salt air

—its wildness showing, extending like

your arms to hold your children, my

children (all of them ours, really), and

this new, small soul we’ve made.

You are a tree. No, you are the bear

knifing its claws into that tree. Or rather,

the sky above it —blue into blue into blue.

And what is it about women and water?

So in love with the ocean

that you’re sure to die beside it.

And yes, there will be a last time

that we see each other. Though, I

admit, I don’t believe that. Sure, a star

dies — blowing itself apart. But where

does the star stuff go? I know you get


To be admired is to be observed,

and shit, that’s a lot of pressure.

Sometimes, you must have felt

like an acrobat, tumbling. No net,

no soft place in sight.

But the crowd was mistaken.

You weren’t falling. You dove.

And on the floor of some ocean, you sat,

regarded a sunken city no one else could

see. Waiting, like Noah, for the water to

recede. Or barring that, some diver to brave

the depth, to meet you at the bottom.

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