It’s rained nearly every day in the past month that
we haven’t spoken. This means: The ocean couldn’t
drown me, so now the sky’s trying. These rolling
clouds, this open-mouthed sky, this witch weather –  
it doesn’t mean anything if I’m the only one willing
to build this ark. I can’t save you if you think Atlantis
is trying to call you home. Maybe this was never holy
ground, maybe it was just the golden hour &  it was
never really love, I was just hazy. Lately I’ve been
doing shots of tequila sunrise, all that liquid gold,
starting to taste like copper. Like all those pennies
in wishing wells. I’m always writing in contradictions
now, still looking for that silver lining. That light at
the end of the tunnel. But you’re the one that put me
here in the first place. How am I supposed to make light
of that? If I create an underground city, am I burying
myself alive or being resourceful? You, algae at your feet
& sand in your hair. Me, six feet under. But maybe now
I’m getting too close to the dead girl metaphor again.
What’s God’s home address? Who do I write to about
all this water? All this debris. These relics of things
we’re all trying to forget.
—  Angelea Lowes, Witch Hour, from An Ode to Dead Fish