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  • Writer's pictureHannah Hinsch


Water from a pitcher

over my open hands

before I speak a word.

Smell of burning hair—

too close

to the candle.

Lights are ships in starboard dark.

My breath close.

Waves toss against my window

leave a film of brine.

Rain steams as it touches glass.

Jonah in warm lifewater, limbs

curled in grace

that carves canyons from rain.

Third day: spit out startled.

Night falls over a moon-cut sea.

He wonders at the

salt dream in strange tongues.

Says he will look again.

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