A trace of her hair tucked away, his skin
beneath her nails. Each square reminded him
of hopscotch. Her head like a tetherball. What kind
“The loneliest thing in the world is waiting to be found.”
—Sarah Linden, The Killing
A trace of her hair tucked away, his skin
beneath her nails. Each square reminded him
of hopscotch. Her head like a tetherball. What kind
of bird are you? He held her between
his hands, hoped every follicle would
remember this. The woven fabric—a crosshatch
on her cheek—pushed a fallen drop into the bookends
of her mouth. It’s like he was never on her
skin, so afraid to be lonely—a measure
of its thickness. We always return to what we do
best. The stillness of her: a fog hovering
over the river, crowded by oak leaves
and a surface film that slicks the Nicomekl
fish brown. She always wanted her name
on the lips of town. Instead, belly to the bottom, she waits.
