Narrated by an unnamed writer as he navigates love and grief, this brief, intimate book will resonate long after you read it. There is a fluidity to the narrator, his shifting sense of self and desire, that lends the read an ambiguous tone of both cruelty and care. But his connection - first sexual, then devotional - to a terminally ill poet colleague, brings exquisite colour to the pages. This is poetry as prose, melancholy and breath-taking.
We swam for hours. When we finally crawled up the bank my muscles were softened and supple, my fingertips wrinkled. I felt diluted, as if I'd begun to blend in with the water, the fish, the insects, and the birds. We lay on our towels in the sun in silence. The heat was almost oppressive once we were under the sun. I noticed that the poet no longer wore dressings on the wounds from her surgery. They looked neat and clean. She had her arms above her head and the soft hair on her underarms glinted reddish in the sun. I'd always imagined her as a swallow, if she were a bird, but I decided that I was wrong. She was a kingfisher.
