The Maynard
Spring 2016

Nicomekl River

The loneliest thing in the world is waiting to be found.
—Sarah Linden, The Killing

A trace of her hair tucked away, his skin
beneath her nails. Each square reminded him
of hopscotch. Her head like a tetherball. What kind

of bird are you? He held her between
his hands, hoped every follicle would
remember this. The woven fabric—a crosshatch

on her cheek—pushed a fallen drop into the bookends
of her mouth. It’s like he was never on her
skin, so afraid to be lonely—a measure

of its thickness. We always return to what we do
best. The stillness of her: a fog hovering
over the river, crowded by oak leaves

and a surface film that slicks the Nicomekl
fish brown. She always wanted her name on the lips
of the town. Instead, belly to the bottom, she waits.