BY ANGIE MASON
I turn over in bed repeatedly,
as if I were a dial twisting beneath
blue sheets. As if my body were searching
for your utopia. I search the shore
of Fire Island. I look for Frank. I wait
on the boat with you starboard and full
of guilt. Neither of us can transcend this
moment, neither of us can imagine
what will happen to our bodies. I see
one woman carry a sledgehammer,
one woman a chisel. One woman works
a rusted chain out from beneath the sand.
The boat is beached, the women, the hull
of each woman’s body breaks, the boat.