This is a quiet grave. In is not made of myths， of great barbarous fish， of coral，
or salt. No one submerges himself with metal and rubber， no one shines her
white light along the floor. Search parties have been suspended. There is no
treasure buried here. This is the place of what-is-not. Of a green so green those
flying above it would call it blue. Of a black so black it glows. This is a world
with its own species of ghosts——plankton drifting inside her， the barnacles nesting
on her hips， her wrists， their whole beings mouths frozen in horror. Sound
turned into silence——like cloth on the floor is the shed skin of the lover. Like
sheets bereft of the shapes that slept. Once upon a time she was all escape——her
long hair， siren of copper and cinnamon， burning a comet behind her. Her long
legs that loved heels and short skirts， that craved the hard slap of the city
beneath her. You would have read this girl. You both wanted more. But she
doesn't remember how she got here， in this bed that consumed her. Why she
can't put her lipstick on， why one would press color like a promise to the lips. It
must have begun with red. But the beginning of this story is lost to the water，
you could rake its bottom of leaves and sticks like tea， you could spear one of its
last trout and study the slick pages of its intestine. The girl is leagues and leagues
away from the first kiss of prologue， but she， throat caked with mud， white skin
scaled verdigris， must be the message within the bottle. Words grow in her
belly. It doesn't matter who put them there. If they are the children of plankton，
descendants of eels and pond scum. They come to her as twins， triplets， and
septuplets， whole alphabets swimming inside her. Each one is a bubble， a bread
crumb， a rung to climb to the top. And as she ascends she names them with
names cradled inside her. Her feet kick and her arms clutch. Her body strong
and slippery， a great tongue that propels her： A is for apple， B is for bone， for
boat， C is for candle， for cunt， for cut.