lakeside

two children, we fill

eyes and lungs with

bark sappy air, tug at

the gnarled wood the

the mud sucked in and

watch for

the fisherman’s only

dance with half the bottom

line.

he twists and spots us -

in the lake mirror we meet.

our bodies are stretched,

christlike, and he dips

a piece of driftwood into

our rippling torsos til

we shudder with the thought

of soaking ourselves down

stream, but we don’t. we don’t.

we lock our eyes

to the pebbled shore, to each

others shallow exhales and

draw closed the

space filled with gnats and

swampy musk

he stuck between us.

if we went now

onto that frozen lake,

we might catch a

glimpse or a

fish.