Mary Jo Bang
It was sepia, Louise said with a hint of nostalgia. Henna, he'd said, after seeing a facsimile of the world-famous photo of the woman who had dyed her hair red. Down, she said, descending the rungs of the ladder that led them right to the door of new depths. Depiction, she said, surfacing in order to say it and fracturing the spell under which they swam in the moment that ended an eon ago. Swans, she said, referring to the needle-neck birds black and white that lined the aisle down one walked to get to the river on which they were skating away.