by Emma Hall

Splintered oars carve bronze tides
in the dip of summer’s bloom,
and I ferry you,

until I can paddle no longer.
Reaching your pier, my anchor
slants through slimy sands,

the calcite circlets of sorrow’s barnacles
eroding iron.

I slip
toward unmapped caverns

but you draw me
back to the surface
with the spreading ripple of your toes.

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