Issue 03
Jenny Declan Langton
When I think of her, Jenny she’s not sure of the time. Out by the watering hole we call a lake, Jenny sunbathes until her skin turns red. In a golden bathing suit she dips her feet into the water, never above the ankles, skin glistens — not a hair in sight. All out of place. When I look at Jenny, I focus on her blonde hair. I think of when she was sixteen and I, fifteen. When I look at Jenny, I get so nervous. If anything touched that blonde hair it wouldn’t be me. At sixteen Jenny likes to run. At fifteen, I have a broken hand. We lay together in the sun. At the lake, I keep my hand in a rubber glove, fastened with electrical tape like a cast to my arm. It’s of its own creation. Jenny watches me swim. Diving into the weeds the glove holds tight to my hand. I feel temperature but not space. There are few fish here.
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