Bridget lashes seven infants together
and orders them to make for Alamendares River.
'You will know it by its brackish aroma.
Please stop crying.' Her sled is a sheer, miraculous thing
of varnished beech planks edged with flashing LEDs.
Flotation bladders hang from the sides.
Vials of iced tea sit in her bandolier like lovely ribs.
'Come on!' she cries. 'Swim, damn your red and weeping eyes!'
But the children are weak with decadence,
and merely bob.
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