"Beginings "
Summers, we'd swim in unnamed lakes,
sunning on a blanket surrounded by weeds.
When I'd see two dogs fuck, I'd have to look away,
repulsed and fascinated; who knew where puppies
came from? The mucky bottom sometimes hid
a piece of broken bottle. We'd heard the big
kids would come out at night and sleep under
the pine trees to kiss. We'd mix dirt with soot
from old bonfires knowing summers went this way.
The lake, with its layers of cold effervescent
springs, would listen to my troubles. I'd enter
murky coves, the green and brown mansions of water,
my body a sleek and mossy fish. I'd
float on my back searching the sky, then flip--
the old mothers would tease me, call me a gilly
flower. I imagined this thing before birth--
the pulsing drums of my own heart under water,
the movement as I swam through dark tunnels
towards the light. Years later, when a fertilized
egg left its safe cove, and I sat on the toilet, weeping,
I thought of a minnow rushing with the current.
I gasped, remembered what it felt like to drown.
I could be so many different people then. A bloody
clot made from Ted and Sylvia's rage. A neon-bird,
drawn only to the brightest red flowers.
© 2006 Laurie Byro
Follow this link to comment
|
|
