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Water Cycle

ISSUE:  Fall 2023

All the rain in the world

is falling, making
a door you can’t open. On

one side of this door, your
body—you are inside it

now. On

the other side, your other
body, the one

you’ve been trying to enter
since you were born. To find

yourself, you must cross
this threshold of rain. Each

drop whispers, You

will not be this beautiful
forever—one day

you will grow so luminous
this world will not be able to

contain it. As a newborn
you were held close

to your father’s chest, to imprint
his smell upon you. Where did he

go? From here,

you can almost make him out,
the you you wanted to be,

though he’s more a silhouette
than a hand you could

hold. Careful

now, a hole has opened at
your feet, all the rain spiraling

down it, nowhere else

to go, like that chart
on the wall in elementary school


how it leaps from liquid to gas
to solid to teardrop to

icicle to steam to waterfall to
piss, an arrow

connecting each. Nothing

is ever lost, no one is ever
unlost. Besides, it hurts to have

skin to pour a soul into.


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