I Think it Would've Made You Happy.

Abigail Conklin

I wanted to call, tell you

how impossible it was

to see the ocean

even as it commandeered

every square inch

of air above the headless cage

of the Manhattan Bridge.

How my breath, deepening,

drew air no longer made lazy

by the 90 degree evening,

but urgent zephyrs

of split-open spring's

first dispatches of the season:

messengers from Pharaoh.

Your daughter, screaming

from the top of the world. 

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