On shores of Percy Priest Lake
May and sister June tuck chins in ruffled covers;
April’s wideeyes peer out from behind
fog blinds and dew slippers of the lakehouse.
You, on the dock, climb into your day’s vessel.
The moon brushes lips on the horizon line and
the dinghy’s waxed frame displays its barren rib cage,
he groans, Grant me a filling today.
Oars row on. The water cuts as a sharp tongue.
Nature covers you in its baptismal blessing
of tiny burr bits and bug bites.
You cast your line in smooth ink, waiting.
When the line doesn’t tug in five minutes
You settle your knees on slick wood, waiting.
When the line doesn’t tug in thirty
You air your foggy hopes, waiting.
When the line doesn’t tug
Fists clench, teeth grind, and
An inch-worth of slimey time snaps
You like peanut brittle,
You—lost
crumbs at the bottom of a string pack.
As eyes and legs wobble,
Blurring, you don’t catch her
Stir
First in rippling flags at five minutes
Then in lanks of common reed at thirty
Now her flapping gale
Barrels toward your body and shoves :
Feet flounder, lips part and sputter,
You, a gaping fish,
Feel goosebumps rise to net
The curtails of Wind dancing ice across your skin
Filling your lungs
Sirening, swim, swim
You trade your wooden frame
For this zephyr and dive
deep in.