The Lake

The lake is.

In a way I cannot touch.

No matter how many times I

Drag myself

Across it

I cannot leave a mark.

I draw in long sweeping strokes

But the boat only caresses the shores.

My skin aches to become one

Sweat its contribution

But the smell is wrong and the lake

Only laughs.

And I flush in gritted teeth

But the sun disciplines us both

Paternal pressure from above

And I boil with stretchy air in my lungs.

My bones are clumsily trying to dissolve.

I can’t think now

Why I capture air in these clothes

My torso cuts into the lake

And after a moment of playful refusal

Like the coy lash flutter of a lover

The lake takes my hand

And kisses me softly.

It tastes like stone with roots.

At last my skin can breath

Though my lungs plaintively shove at my spine.

I humor them because I am only visiting.

My teeth bite at the water and

She blows salt at my blind eyes,

Though I can see still

With my fingertips.

When finally

The sun calls a farewell,

I reluctantly snap back into

Shape

Like a rubber limpet.

Motion forced apart from me.

The lake leaves her goodbye

On my skin.