29 June 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 2

You loved a woman once

by KEETJE KUIPERS

She told you of childhood summers, mayflies trembling

beside the bridge of her nose, hunting frogs. Skinning them

on a brick, the house smelling like their small, fried legs.

All she wanted was for you to carry her home in a canoe

with paddles, life vests, a flare. You promised

to teach her how to swim when she was in your arms.