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doard his sweet, fragile gills

fluttering under the world like a heartbeat

In 1985

I was six,

learning to swim around my father’s boat

in a black, black lake

outside Seattle, where the pine roots

wound down into the black,

black mud

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The Justice League

had left us The boy under the sea

(Ichtiander, 1928)

(Arthur Curry, 1959)

wore orange scales and his wife didn’t