i.
this body has a history—
as most nouns do, and likewise
it doesn’t relish sharing: you must read
decode the treasure map, x
might not mark the spot
but following freckles may lead somewhere
ii.
rain caresses the cerulean lake
(gentle gesture that’s naughtier
than it seems) and eases into the water
like a casual stranger you just met five vodka
sodas ago, and the fluorescent algae atop the water
doesn’t seem to mind the acidic rain
which glows just as it hits the bright lagoon;
this must happen all the time, coming and go-
ing, drops here and there – misting – then
stopping before returning again without notice
or invitation. the blue seems deeper,
reflective, clearer, confident alone:
but neon when it rains
iii.
there is nothing cute about curves of fingernails
when they’ve been bitten (it all started in the fourth
grade spelling bee), but there is something to that scar
just there: shaped like a v – metal. snip. crimson:
cutting pine, the best smell, like the forest growing
along the lake in the valley where poems grow;
the bandage wasn’t enough – should’ve had stitches
but there’s something about pride in going through
ten band-aids in a single hour
iv.
the crowd has gathered to witness
beauty at its peak, this body of water
transparent and naturally the color of dyed
easter eggs; the lake ought to feel pleased
so admired, so many new friends and guests
after thousands of centuries: nearly solitary
existence, only the stony-face mountain
to talk to, and what a bore to be immovable
it’s always been obvious: the lake wants to dance
v.
nonverbal communication is very important
so crossed arms mean i don’t want
to talk, to move, to see, to dance
(or just that this is comfortable)
common misconception: the quiet
have nothing to say and rest their words
in the nooks and crannies of their crossed arms—
i would much like to speak to you
about the way oranges smell and how wind
is only a good thing about twenty-seven
percent of the time and i love to stretch
out on uncut grass and feel my back
mold against the earth like it’s some mattress
we could never hope to replicate; but
you should know all of this by the way
i’ve crossed my arms—isn’t that telling?
vi.
napping must be the favored pastime
of the water; what else would it love
to do in mid-morning, afternoon, evening?
maybe it makes wakefulness so much
the more enticing ember to glow brighter;
as a flame flickers, the lake’s edges lap
at the grass calmly, eternally, even as it sleeps
just to remember who it is: i am the lake
here are my boundaries, ever-changing
vii.
clavicles and patellae are scandalous
(if you really consider their curves
and how intimately they move with muscles)
and skeletons and skin are nothing
made for shame, this kind of malleable
thing that is you but not you;
corporeal outlines exist and so we do
we reach and touch, just to remember
that we are: i am. i am here. i am ever-changing.
