Leveler Poetry Journal
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Her Art


I picked the wrong hand.

The wooden nickel was under

her tongue. She slapped


my attention away and it

melted into

the sand. When the pain


subsided like a ship

on the horizon I collected

my clothes and my


self and tried my lips

again. She tasted

like winter


through a window.

Could anything solid

be that far away? I only


wanted to claim

the weight of water

behind her snow


and ocean. To pocket

the play of her pliƩ.

Or find a little air


to hold on to.

She never gave me the nickel.

The ship slipped into the scrim.




Alex Chambers