by Mandy Malloy
Crash, like your children are going to,
into the deep end of the blue
lake impossible
dead leaf strewn, pulsing
flotillas of organic spume—
only your elbows’ pickled compass
cresting, as toes plow
shivery border water—did you know
it can taste good? Tell the others in passing
I found it along the bewooded route
as you, breathing big, wonder
below the brief umbrella of your arm’s own arc
what——breath in——could——breath out——have given you
the final push? The suppleness of your birthday suit.
Finding what never wanted solving
by jumping the hoary fence—