by Jacquelyn Pope

April balcony evening    spring’s dark
curtain coming on    a deepening
blackdrop    the end of an act
I am eight weeks gone    I’ve come
years away    to stand up four
flights from    the water’s wave
and angle    to watch it siphoned
into channels    grids of shadow
that draw me down    water parted
from rivers    parted from storm
wearied along an undercurrent
water whispers    to the water in me
tensed and balanced    trenches
defenses    city walls    sidestreet
understreet    a tunneling line
crossed    double-crossed    underscored


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