Somewhere Up North
Meghan Cadwallader
I am drunk in a cold lake
black from the night, striped white
with lightening, the placid sheet
broken by the kicks and strokes of
drunken friends flailing on inflatables
as we watch the storm roll closer.
Why fear the things that live
beneath the surface?
They may bump against me
a fin or soft eel flesh slipping against my ankle
but they cannot pull me down,
not with the buoys of laughter bobbing
among us, life preservers
arching through the goodbyes
that hover on the shore
to be donned like a towel
about the shoulders.
A day later, I wander through
airports, across tarmac to board
prop planes, hit my head on the
overhead compartment: the giant
in the water now a sore and staggering
traveler, a speck in the sky.
The bags slung on our shoulders and under
our eyes are reminders of what we have left
each time we depart. The secret bleeds from us--
blurred ink on the papers in our backpacks and purses,
dog-eared and bent and obvious--
a wet bathing suit under dry clothes.
I am drunk in a cold lake
black from the night, striped white
with lightening, the placid sheet
broken by the kicks and strokes of
drunken friends flailing on inflatables
as we watch the storm roll closer.
Why fear the things that live
beneath the surface?
They may bump against me
a fin or soft eel flesh slipping against my ankle
but they cannot pull me down,
not with the buoys of laughter bobbing
among us, life preservers
arching through the goodbyes
that hover on the shore
to be donned like a towel
about the shoulders.
A day later, I wander through
airports, across tarmac to board
prop planes, hit my head on the
overhead compartment: the giant
in the water now a sore and staggering
traveler, a speck in the sky.
The bags slung on our shoulders and under
our eyes are reminders of what we have left
each time we depart. The secret bleeds from us--
blurred ink on the papers in our backpacks and purses,
dog-eared and bent and obvious--
a wet bathing suit under dry clothes.