And I solemnly swear on the chill of secrecy that I know you not, this room never, the swollen dress I wear, nor the anonymous spoons that free me, nor this calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover.
For all these present, before that wandering ghost, that yellow moth of my summer bed, I say: this small event is not. So I prepare, am dosed in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid.
I was brown with August, the clapping waves at my thighs and a storm riding into the cove. We swam while the others beached and burst for their boarded huts, their hale cries shouting back to us and the hollow slam of the dory against the float. Black arms of thunder strapped upon us, squalled out, we breathed in rain and stroked past the boat. We thrashed for shore as if we were trapped in green and that suddenly inadequate stain
of lightning belling around our skin. Bodies in air we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack. It was yellow inside, the sound of the underwing of the sun. I swear, I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac