When the rain comes, the lake makes more of itself. Black water buries the lilies, only the tips of their fingers exposed. Not to be outdone, infection spreads through my body, leaving me sprawled on the floor of the shower. At the beginning, it’s a novelty: a neat transposition, the interior suddenly made exterior. This is the landscape of grief. I step through a mirror to watch my body as it opens my mouth to speak. Then I’m in so much pain that I have no language left. Nothing is like this. It just is. I have a fever. I bloody a table. It takes two doctors to hold me down. I picture a ring of pain closing. A ring of pain. A ring of pain. Then I’m screaming too loud to close it. After, on the ceiling, I draw a circle: black lake, blur of cypress, ribbon of panic—that’s me. Am I afraid to get back into the boat? To lean out over the dead lake, skim my fingers through the tar, hold my breath & feel it burn me from the inside? What do you think? The sheet is ripped away & I’m revealed to be the ruin I always was. Do you see it now? The ring of pain. A double ring.