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The Swim

The lake, wide but longer
than the imagination (it makes its own
north and south), comes prettily
to our feet, a giant animal grown
gentle. Is it like anything else
we know? I remember being thirteen and
briefly in love with a boy already
as large as a large man, and him offering
his tender lips to mine—the rest of his
body there, but not touching, not yet.
Have we forgotten everything else?
If I want I can remember everything—
the not tender, the not gentle—
but look at what were being offered,
the chance to strip down, accept grace
with our grace, dive in and forget.

Gigi Marks

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Silverfish Review Press

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