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D. M. Frech, Clouds over the Shore
Resurrection of the Mannequins
Ruth Towne
 
 
Mirror-clear water bisects me as I rise 
            from under its polished surface. Above, 
the moon is a jellyfish, a neon night light.
            It hovers, that umbrella with its tentacles 
 
in fuchsia blue and magenta. Before this, 
            I was a girl who came to life in the water, 
a champagne glass curved and crystalline. 
            Not far from here, I think I hear a woman 
 
scream, but her fear is music, siren’s song. 
            And how strange, if once there were stars 
above me I can’t recall. Maybe they hanged 
            there while clouds concealed them, ordinary 
 
as air the ocean surf has churned to foam.
            Once, I was younger longer than expected. 
And once, I had ideas of who I’d live to be.
            I have a fragment of an idea, an impression 
 
of a dream. Each orb substitutes for a star, 
            and it’s not the dream itself but a memory 
of the dream, a particle of light arriving light
            years later, an ancient light that passes on.
 
On shore, a handful of crystal figurines turn 
            on pointed toes, dancing under fluorescents, 
those beautiful music box–bound ballerinas, 
            those exquisite dead in blush pink leotards. 
 
They store their deaths in those music boxes. 
            On command the dancers turn. They assemblé. 
They pirouette. Elsewhere, other dancers wait 
            their turns, passé. Once, they were becoming.
 
Now, no one speaks of them. Here, a headless 
            woman and the head of a woman are equal, 
and no one can stomach one whole. Violence 
            is a commodity, a tiny tchotchke as common 
 
as a half shell on any beach, bleach white,
            ready for collection. Later, a crowd will feed 
on my bare body–I, the ever-lovely carrion; 
            they, the rock-brown lobsters scavenging 
 
a bouldered ocean floor. Somewhere close, 
            a melancholy melody swells, a hollow blow
of a nautilus shell follows. I know the song.
            It’s welcoming me home to this far harbor 
 
where the sea is dahlia blue and the medusa 
            moon pulses like a burnt nerve. It’s my turn–
somewhere, there’s a music box for me.  
            In another life, I dreamed I was a ballerina.
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