At the lake, the water is
still. It doesn’t retreat as we do. Here,
I learned how to bury the dead
within myself. You scattered my father
at my feet as the sun bowed
its head. The sky, still. I remember
your hands closed around the boy
he was, skin once browned
in the summer sun as he played
with us near shore. You moved
around me then, low prayers
plating your mouth. His name, said
like he was accident, not
the accident we all are. You taught me
how temporary water levels are
as you moved within me, Chanel No. 5
lingering after you passed. O how I want
to be less tired of wanting
what’s lost. In water, nothing returns.
But you gave me a name
before I knew I needed one. A girl,
fraying with the intentional motion
of bodies—, the water moving us
further from ourselves.
