Thunder Bay
The graveyard’s edge, maple shaded and silent. This is the
place to leave letters enclosed in ziplock bags. And a pen in case anyone
decides to write back. The spring puddles smudge the ground like lead, worms
dislodge, teetering beneath the water. I move faster so Josh can’t grab my
legs.
These barbed and fenced edges breed their own set of
challenges. So does the dividing of the lake’s gust into our own patterns of
breath: meiosis of inhalation. Running didn’t feel like it when we were
fearful. Fear didn’t feel like it we crossed the bridge to the island.
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