Juliet on water

by Lucy Thynne

a breath, and the notes fall on dark water,
hesitant at first, but then sailing, like pale

adjacent bodies rising on the blue hips of a 
young girl. I think of this girl’s heart, hollowed

by the hands of that man, careful as they carve it
to a canoe pushed out on to this ocean. Quavers

like geese follow as it skims, blemishing the
Stillness for only a second, bending the air, a

perfect house made out of water. Somehow you never
think anything can hold you this tight by the ribs and

still breathe. In my mind I think of the couple, spools of
song pulsing beneath their boat, stellate and wet

against eyelids as it makes tracks like stains on my
skin, a journey with an end best left unsaid. I think of

that tiny fistful of love, of blood feuds, of that
girl running in from blue coldness, only to meet

her crescendo, accelerando,
fine.