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  • They Found the Body
  • Nancy Kang

Perhaps we are sojourners all—you, she, and I—moored like thin-shelled barnacles to the backs of whales,wreathed with myths of painful creationand conjugation with animal spirits. There are no miraclesin these cold northern rivers where teens have flickedtheir spent smokes.Our River Jordans are lineups in Times Square,the sweat of girls at Studio Sutra bowing downin their hundred-dollar yoga gear and tossingtheir arms and ears to shake the gold-platedelephant and hamsa trinkets. If not adrift,we are more or less frozen, but there are tadpolesand sturgeon with secret eyesmoving in the warmth beneath.Only waterstriders walk on water, buoyed by bedsof soft molecules, but this is in spring.We are not yet there.These transparent chains, vibrating, almost sentient,slide so easily down the throat or up a flower's stem.Death by water has lost its poetry this time.Requiescat in pace, friend.May you calculate the contours of heaven,which are really just imaginary numbersand indivisible, like that rind of honeydew that you atefor the first time at the campus diner and texted me,This shit is sweet. [End Page 257]



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