BY JAN VERBERKMOES
in a summer burn. Lie still then velvet-headed, we run
for the far side of the lake.
The water sunken in its bowl of mud,
yet deep enough to wrap us in soft webs of algae.
We float on our back, the sky blue—less, fitted with thin white clouds,
cut and cut again with the black silhouette of wings.
Water-fingers press into our ears, the corners of our mouth.
They teach us to inhale properly
so the voice travels inward, back into the belly
and cannot swell the mouth open. Remember?
I rub my skin where we separated and it stings.
Water-body, who is holding who? I still can’t dry off.