Like a thin rock spinning across a lake
(with luck, it ends up on a meager beach;
without luck, it sinks): no one penetrates.
If sister touches herself in the mirror
of that lake, if brother stops and sees her,
what choice but embarassment or insane desire?
Look at yourself watching them, entirely distant
and lonely. You feel only your own grief
when you hold another’s lonely body.
But just as the fingertip knows
the lush touch, just as the thin rock
slaps the water back as hard as the hand
that threw it, in the deepest part of yourself
there is no one to tell you the truth.
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