Lakeside

by

Jacqueline West

 

 

Under my footsoles the creak of quiet
answers the breeze, the buzz of a fly
and slosh of swallowed air between waves
that slowly meet the yellow sand.
Wrapped around the notes of a loon
like a cranberry string on a black pine tree
through the reed-tops’ whispered voices,
I remember, from the peeling dock
licked by kelp stalks, their great brown length
falling through murk where vision fails
and flat eyes slant toward distant light;
where memories are residue left by high tide.
Yes, they answer. Their scent, too, a promise,
the water aged from the last fresh rain,
the wet mulch, the breath hissing like a fugue
over the rim of an emptied shell.
And the wings of leaves. The things
unasked, the things unanswered.
Yes, yes. This is, this is.

 

 

 

Jacqueline West currently lives, writes, and teaches in Madison, Wisconsin.  Her work has recently appeared in journals including The Pedestal Magazine, Mytholog, Hidden Oak, and Poetry Motel.

 

 

 

 

 

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