The lake wasn’t deep. We pushed the boat out
and watched it take on water. You drank and
drank and drank. The taste, you said, an
afterthought, a bruise. I wish you had let me
Later, the upended flask. The snake current.
The tear climbing back into its socket. I
should have been there. Like an eye that saw
and a hand that held. Like driftwood. Like
hope. Not stuck in the after. Not where the
notes shattered air. Not with that muffled
song, trapped inside a scream. The one that
sings me, still.
These dreams I have. You, growing upward
from the mud and I, one with it. A swamp
creature. My swamp hands clutching your
ankles. My swamp mouth latching on yours.
There was darkness in both of us, but mine
was lighter. I see that now. You carried the
sky. I merely watched you do it.
And now, this morning. A distinct shade of
blue that only exists in memory. And the
voice. Do you hear it? Forget who you are
and come over, it says. Forget you’ve been
lost to each other and forget what you’ve lost.
The world is so new, anything could happen.
First published in Harpur Palate, Volume 19, no. 1, Fall 2019