Brianna Flavin

The lake I once took to my chest

became a fog I walk through, barefoot

and naked in the bottom of the rock basin

where the water is quieter than snow.

Fishermen, boat riders,

blueberry farmers, I find you

when you’re lonely, when you wander

from your homes, swollen-eyed as baitfish.

You’ve forgotten the taste of the water.

Let me lead you to pearling stars

crusted on the night floor.

Let me slit you eyes that never

close, that see through kimberlite and bone,

let me weave you under walleye chop

to where storms beat slow. Let me

suck your currents of warmth, envelop them

with my body long as insomnia, body going on

as far as ripples go.

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