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It doesn’t take much for me to slip out of myself, like a fish, to shapeshift into astral excrescences, a Neptunian Precambrian imaginal. A hint of the tragic and I’m out. In diffuse light, in seaweed crumbling on rock, I gulp water and salt as my fins flop while my poorly-de-signed gills work hard to extract minute amounts of oxygen. I’ve never transcended myself in my poems, but live in false oblivion. You’ll have to swim out, as I did, to find a poem of your own, holding your breath, diving from your lifeboat. If you’re mindful enough, the joy is immediate and close. REBECCA LILLY
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Apr 1, 2022
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