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Christina Cook

Whenever Night

Whenever night presses
its damp hand on the back
of my neck, I remember 

how the Luna moth clung
to my window and died,
how its stiff green beauty 

absorbed the pale moonlight
that spread through the house
while I slept, I remember 

the arc of the cormorant's neck
as it dove into the dark lake,
leaving no trace 

for resurrection. At the market,
I buy a dozen speckled eggs
and a loaf of marble rye, 

but there’s a part of me
that remembers more
than mere sustainment. 

I stop the canoe from smacking
the dock, untangle fishing line
out of the tree: I am drawn 

to the shiny lure, remember its metal
spoon-shape skimming

like prey over the water, 

catching slant rays of light
and dragging them

down to the bed below.

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