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  • Writer's pictureHannah Hinsch

The Night Stream

presents itself a bride 

fluted in moonlight,

laid over the broken beach, herself broken over it, 

draped like lace in foam over rock

speaking in unveiled quiet  

(as though within a closed door) 

what I had thought a distant source. 

 

But when I touch her outflung heart— 

veined and made of silver and dark,  

press my palm over the slick inlets, 

those places of quiet entry 

distilled as though for a purification rite, a clear carafe

giving seamlessly the moment it receives— 

she opens into the sea so unmiraculously, so plainly and completely,

with a strength gathered up, a touch unwithheld— 

offers herself like need and like hunger, a body flowering open amid thirsting ground— 

never to return empty. 

A stranger at the door

cup in hand, thrumming with more. 


 

 



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