Every summer morning, I stop to watch the tattered mist lift, sun-stained the color of first blood. Herons pluck their legs from the mud and mergansers slip the surface, rivulets running from the crown, down. Rose mallow emerge, veined like lips, and open. On your birthday, I wedge a bottle under the dock. I imagine you, legs dangling in the slant-shaded river, thinking of me, while I bite the shoulder of your memory.

Bio: Melanie Dunbar