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The
River Inside Her
There
once was a river inside her so she swam. She swam and swam and floated by a
tender rock where boys counted hobos on freight trains, by a family pitching
horseshoes at a cornroast, drifting, drifting by a woman sealing a jar of jam
with wax. She drifted farther still to a box of checkers under a Christmas tree
until she could drift no more, so she paddled.
She
paddled and paddled and kicked beyond a
blue island
where she remembered the day a pilot
and her plane disappeared and a hero’s baby was kidnapped until she could kick
no more, so she thrashed.
She
thrashed and thrashed and bobbed for air in a rapid current where she grabbed
onto tree branches and shiny possessions with plugs whose long electrical cords
reeled her in to the riverbank until she could bob no more, so she lay there.
She
lay there and lay there and basked in a sun so strong it evaporated the river
inside her, until she could bask no more, so she prayed.
She
prayed and prayed and reflected on her last breath of life before they wheeled
in a machine with three images to resuscitate her.
When
they pulled the lever, a lemon, a banana, and a cherry appeared, but she did not
open her eyes. When they pulled the lever again, two lemons and a cherry
appeared, but she did not open her eyes.
When
they pulled the lever once more, three lemons appeared and she awoke, inhaling
and exhaling long enough to touch the tender rock protruding from her bosom then
to roll over, leaving a puddle left from the river inside her until it too
evaporated down to a drop too small for even the wind to swallow.
This
story appeared in Sudden Stories and was later published in altered form
in Death by Renaissance.
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