The Pen by Maggie Silverson

I can see her,
everlasting ripples along glass.
The river is carrying her through the early
morning light —
a linen sheet soaked with sweat.
Chemtrails overhead, silky seaweed below.
Sadistic figures crossing the creaking bridge,
cursing
an embodiment of monogamy — of loyalty.
A supercut of innocence within one frame.
Did you see in between the valley of her wing?
A streak of mud, of filth —
an untethering of perfection.
Can you hear it?
The rush of freezing water over the scene,
the deafening tranquility that follows.
Her beauty is in the wind and she belongs to no
one.
Can you see me?
Bloody, on my hands and knees —
worshiping the pen in the river.