SELF-PORTRAIT AS LAKE |
I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. This night tastes of copper. I’m lying in the meadow, fisting clover while a distant dog unravels its yowl. Clouds hover low and edge their way west. My dress is stained with dirt, my tongue barbed wire. Let me become the sun sinking below the hills. I’m afraid of the dark, the way it invites want to show its face. I’m afraid of my house when no one’s home, of what I become at nightfall: a lake where someone, maybe me, might drown. Thighs rippling like waves, recurring dream of my face without features except for a mouth, drawing open to let water in. |