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.