E. Kristin Anderson grew up in Westbrook, Maine and moved to the Big Apple in 2006 where she worked at the New Yorker Magazine. In 2008 she started a new adventure in Texas. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mimesis, iota, The Wolf, Pearl, Etchings, RE:AL, the Cimarron Review, Fuselit, Umbrella and Fourteen Hills among others. Emily holds a BA in Classical Studies from Connecticut College and really likes the smell of old Latin texts. She shares a house with her boyfriend, Mark, and three cats (with eleven legs) in Austin. You can sometimes find her shelving, selling, and raving about books at BookPeople, Texas' largest independent book store.
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I found you on the tongue of a whale
face up and humming. And so
I laid beside you as he drew in
slow, sour breaths. It took hours
to be swallowed, and as we went down
you whispered that she had pushed
at your shoulder with Tuesday's grace,
fell open but once. So you dropped anchor
in the anesthesia of heat, swimming,
like that small fish flopping on the dock
who left slick, wet impressions on the red wood.
As we fell into his stomach, the whale fell asleep
and we ached as the bile rose
to take our skin. And now the whale
will have teeth I said, touching your hair
for the last time, his heart a mighty bass drum
singing wild sound, wild sound.