My daughter begins to row. Distrusts old hillmaps produced by the Admiralty. Makes her own silence out of shoehorns and torn pages. Has adequate supplies. On one of her spacewalks she brings back an urn half-filled with my ashes. She prefers her own music for the dirge. She sorts through debris for gags to remember. All too soon the glassboat breaks. But she can swim and books I will never read line her shelves. An unmarked moon beckons with each sleep. Her farm on the edge of the balloon fruits secrets. She plans to live there among her pomegranates and leeches. The arc of her bones bends towards rain. She is readying wings for the sprint. One with the feathers of a crow. The other of a goat.
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