Rensselaer – Lottie Byrne

November 8, 2025

wet dripping wool weighs down long limbs trawling the floor.
each hand saddled with a knife
scratching long strias into the earth behind me.
long. i try to make them last long.
sometimes i wake to find they’ve written things: body; hands; barrel; the lantern.
the dark strip of shore where foam waves splash against shredded rock grow dimmer
and dimmer the longer i sit
my skin is blue. when did i get here? to the place where crashing fractals burst 30 feet
above my head. it’s not rocky anymore. when i lift the knife water rushes to wash away
my mark. sand slowly leaks up my arms. crumbling into the floor of my mouth.
the grainy pieces coat the inside of the throat. cinnamon.
i’m still carving out a line

though the sea

is over my head?

i cannot speak, i cough. i lay here
i knew a man with a booming voice, he swallowed swords.
a spark.
i wash the knife off the sand or the sand off the knife
turn to tilt my head straight back like petrified seaweed
with teeth to the sky, i pretend my knife is a sword and stick my throat
with a thud
its tip enters the sand
starting the clock
the granules move
…drop…by…drop…
past the diaphragm
i remove my knifesword tasting blood mixed with sand
mixed with foam; with metal
bubbles fly up protruding from perforation inside me
my hair dances in strings around my calves
curling through the salt, could have sworn i cut it yesterday
i throw my knife behind me to lay down on the sea floor
squint to see the wave marked dunes

i pull my fingernails from their grave and scathe a message in the floor;
Rensselaer
the anglerfish nip at my toes like little kisses