Shoal

by on Nov 11, 2015

My shoes
still smell like lake water,
humped like buried

rocks
by the front door.

On the boat we’d call
them shoal, those drowning
rocks:

ragged teeth

jawing weakly
underwater.

Now the lake has all gone
dry: forgotten

summers heaped like shells
along its edge. Broken

sunglasses
and bottles. Plastic
knives like thin flat
bones.

I walk for hours
to find
the inlet where
we swam, staining our fingers

with new berries
while the clouds

dissolved above us
like spent rain.

 


Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco lives in California’s Central Valley. She spends much of her time staring at the sky, which is almost incessantly beautiful.

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