Memento, Meaghan Quinn



They say the North Shore is a filmmaker’s dream

made up of tiny fishing towns. In Ipswich, in Essex, the canals are crawling with jumbo shrimp. The
mussels are so tender, and when left to drench in butter, they melt like an ice cube sliding through
your jeans.

Let me start by saying that we can never tell anyone about that

about the rose full blown blooming above the rose steeped in shipyard sin. We chopped roses off
the trees and sat their smoking them in our undershirts. We read the tarot cards of sailboats

Millionaires raise their kids here. In mansions overseeing the water. Their souls spook the moors.

We should keep it quiet. The way we laid opposite and licked one another inside that vacant
mansion. You were happy, and that verified something, didn’t it?

They say the beaches here can swallow you whole. Suck you in like a twin Bermuda Triangle. Once
you’ve stepped foot here, a part of the soul can’t ever leave.

And this morning when I told you to hurt me, to do something new to me, you shucked me open,
and the ice sulked like a pool spreading between us. I was happy then, wasn’t I?


Meaghan Quinn

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