Back when my head like an egg in a nest was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful had no tongue with which to lick—no discernable
Adrian Blevins is the author of Bloodline (Hollyridge Press, 2012).