I used the Moira Egan Transliteration exercise as one of my junkyard pieces for the week since it focuses on one specific image.
I see another puddle
in our bedroom, shining
and I think it must be
a reflection, but when I
ask her, she says: No,
it is a leak escaping
in a small echo of freedom
we want, a realization
we haven’t learned, but
escape silently, and fail—
a faint translation.
Here I am, sopping up,
another masked attempt,
I say, and she nods.
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