Spin. Old crone at her wheel, flaxen threads. Your fate in her hands. Spinning. A widening gyre. The center cannot hold, Yeats said. Turning. You lurch against the sink, acid rising in your throat. The floor slants, the room spins. Your heart is. The face in the mirror blurred and unfamiliar. Maiden, mother, crone. Eeeny meeny miny mo.


London Bridge is. So many, Eliot said. I had not thought death had undone so many. City streets tangled like thread, knotted beyond. Lead you to an overwhelming question. And another, and another. Rushing in your ears. Crowds sweep by. You stumble, stagger to your feet.


Sink. Shiny white porcelain. Sink. To your. Knees. Sinking. Your heart is. Sinking. The Titanic hits an iceberg in your brain. Seven-eighths of your story, Hemingway said. Keep hidden. Underwater. Dark. The North Atlantic shockingly cold, twenty-eight degrees the night you sink. The iceberg that kills you so vast, but just ice after all, destined to melt into the ocean without a trace within a year, or maybe two.

Jacqueline Doyle lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she teaches at California State University, East Bay. Her flash and lyric prose have appeared in Sweet, Vestal Review, elimae, Monkeybicycle, The Rumpus, Literary Orphans, Café Irreal, Everyday Genius, Corium, and elsewhere. Her essays have earned Pushcart nominations from Southern Humanities Review and South Loop Review, and a Notable Essay citation in Best American Essays 2013. Find her online at

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