Baby, I’m Circe. I hold down the island. I don’t drown my own men in the sea. I tidy up the underworld, and down here there’s a tunnel to hell where we wave, each to each. We bury waterlogged peaches, deep. We refuse to die in this underneath. When the detective breaks in and asks which way he went, I take a drag or sip. I pivot, indifferent. I curtsey, ankles in check. I know how to turn around. I know who waits in this clockless eternity and who is allowed to drown.
