The threshold made the world metallic, forged it in rust. It was false in what it signaled and what it exuded from her. The metal so large, barnacled. Bowed at the bottom awaiting an arrow. It drew forth memories of fantasies as if they were real, fragments from novels, from shells. A distortion; the salty suspension that gently consumes, only present from flesh and garbling

+

She named her daughters after poems and names that when spelled backwards spelled other names and after hard plastic products and after the rusted screw that held her bathtub faucet. Nets, boats, beards, salt dotting their platted hair, tattoos rocking under the boat, jagged lines, arms danced with lines that scrawled the fishing lures to their bodies.

+

Her dreams were in abstracted body parts: a hand moving through pooled water. Hip bone contoured with lips, from where, she did not know. In pieces, in segments, in short frames of movement and nonmovement. She must know the parameters of containment.

+

There are cylinders everywhere, and she says it’s a problem. Where obelisks, in their folds and creases, in there…in there, in their immensity of…that refuse the razor-sharp forms that cut rock. It might sink unlike anything she’s seen. It’s not the problem.