Winter on the open seas is a grueling affair. Sometimes, the nets I haul up have turned to ice. I know this because the fish have begun to talk again. They say it was so cold…
We met in the apartment of accident. You carried weapons: a pen, plastic bags, a grocery receipt; necessary means of transience, unnecessary hubris. My tongue was barbed.
"Would you still love me if I were frozen?" my brother asks from beneath his covers.
"I would still love you even if you were an electric dog," I murmur from across the room; the room I hate to describe.