Flesh Like Water

By Anna Egeland

​                 After Ken Price's McLean
 

In the beginning I was his echo,
            refracting his syllables brilliantly.

The truth is I wanted to fold him into my creases

            and in doing so, erase the boundaries between us.
 

He loved the things in which he could see himself:
            the opalescent sheen of pleasure in my bark,

the silver rivers that trickled down my thighs,
            the water pooling in my sockets.
 

I was there for the melancholies too: the cocoons,
            the anthills, the robust morbid eggs.
 

For months I watched the replications,
            watched his roots wither.
 

When he fossilized,
            I mourned him brutally.