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Aquatic

I remember how light
shot through it:
layers of algae lacing
up the edges, the gurgling
of water pumps, filters
churning. Sunny
always & how I longed
for them & how silent I remained
against that longing.
How silent they were:
mouths working
the clear glass so I could see
on the other side
both my reflection
& the rough coins
of their tongues, shells
spinning inward
around the hidden parts
of their bodies. I waited.
Under the cathedral ceiling,
I wondered at the smoothness
of their movements,
how they slung
their weighted shells.
Looking back, I understand
I could have asked for one,
could have watched
my grandfather prepare
a jar, filled with enough water
to make the trip home. I see now
the delicacy of such requests—
tight spiral of my voice,
the fear of wanting.

Meg Stout’s poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, Zócalo Public Square, Mid-American Review, and the Maine Sunday Telegram/Portland Press Herald. A graduate of the M.F.A. program at Warren Wilson College, she lives in Midcoast Maine. 

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