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——plankton¹ drifting inside her， the barnacles nesting

    on her hips²， 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 bereft³ of the shapes that slept. Once upon a time she was all escape——her

    long hair， siren of copper⁴ and cinnamon， burning a comet behind her. Her long

    legs that loved heels and short skirts， that craved⁶ 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 lipstick⁷ 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 trout⁸ and study the slick pages of its intestine⁹. The girl is leagues and leagues

    away from the first kiss of prologue¹⁰， but she， throat caked with mud， white skin

    scaled verdigris¹¹， must be the message within the bottle. Words grow in her

    belly¹². It doesn't matter who put them there. If they are the children of plankton，

    descendants of eels⁵ and pond scum. They come to her as twins， triplets， and

    septuplets， whole alphabets swimming inside her. Each one is a bubble， a bread

    crumb¹³， a rung to climb to the top. And as she ascends¹⁴ 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.