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by Kevin Henderson

That dry rock is not where your problems are.


Even if those wily gas giants conspire to collect

every icy knife from the Kuiper &



          Mercury into 

          iron shrapnel



          every molecule 

          into a trillion-ton

          comet melt


and fling 

          the soup into the 

          deepest black slosh 

          dripping with your

          spat accusations,


Mercury will still be dry 

and will always be 

crossing the Sun.


But you, 

oh wet one,


a dry rock is


always snaring 

          some corner of your ocean

always slid 

          from your wife’s sweat-soaked finger

always waiting 

          at the bottom of your wishing well

and a dry rock will always be

          just fine 


                              you to shreds and threading 

                              your sloshy skin thins into 

                              a tiny wet belt even though 

                              its pants fit just fine. 


Your pants fit just fine




Mercury’s pants 

are always dry.


Wet is where 

your problems are.

About the Author

K.J. Henderson lives in New Jersey. His work has been published in antilang magazine.

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