My Quarry
was ghastly vast, a throat too swollen 
to swallow, as I followed him in— 
he who owned a switchblade 
and told me only 
take it out if you’ll use it. 
He who toed the water naked 
and lit a cigarette before dipping in. 
My quarry, it dragged like a hook 
and hid him in the wreck 
of a dredger for me to find. 
We fell into atrophy 
and used it as excuse 
for what our hands were doing. 
Me, unbelieving, weak from the jeans 
I slipped off and tossed to an evergreen. 
My back bone-white and bruised, 
I wanted to be new for him. He 
who chewed chaw. He who swore 
he’d pull me into a bar fight 
sometime. When he said every year 
a bunch of teens drown in quarries 
I understood and was underwater 
before the beam of the night patrol 
flashed the waves we waited below— 
shaky ghost of a man I didn’t know 
and him a handhold away. 
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