May 31, 2024

sculling

in the little park next to the lake where i row, he’s frozen mid stroke at the half. whatever genius the sculptor had was spent entirely in getting his expression right: he knows the song, that one i sing when my own blade sinks into the water, when my fingers move to unbutton the blouse the first time, when i reach for the words and almost touch them — it doesn’t count unless it costs. if it’s easy i don’t want it, some things should leave marks.