Rappahannock Review | Matthew Mahaney
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Matthew Mahaney

The Arctic Dreams

She is always dead before the iceberg has finished eating its way through our boat. My legs never stop scissoring beneath me, even after the ocean has worked its way through my skin. I can feel the cold spreading through my body. The salt turns my organs to slush. I never notice the exact moment that her body disappears. I’ll be watching her float facedown toward the horizon for hours and then she’s gone. I try to remember the color of her dress before it was ruined with smoke and blood, try to count the black fins rising up all around me.

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