by Audrey Molnar '19
If my plunged
fist released the oval pebble
it would sink.
But it didn’t.
I still feel it in
my rounded palm.
Water spilled between
my fingers, my jeans soaked
with the tilt
of my wrist.
It could have found rest.
But it didn’t.
Beside the rusted
harmonica, the gold ring, plastic.
My hand a
pillow. The delta
a funnel for what my
palm couldn’t hold.
I still feel
it in my rounded palm
like melting ice.
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