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.