At first, her dreams were filled with water,
her body a boat lost at sea.
Her boat-body:

an empty hull, an open hatch.
She counted the waves
that reached the break wall

like some count sheep, but she
was already sleeping. In her dreams,
the lighthouse always moved

further away. It was a match head,
a firefly. It was the dimmest star.
She stood at the stern

and watched a duck eat the belly
of a fish, white flesh speckling
the dark water. A tendril

of fishgut trailed from the duck’s beak.
A ribbon. A string
around her finger.