Silvered Swim, Long Lake

You come upon it, this lake that
turns itself inside out, a dawn mirror,
and breath catches in your throat.

You come to it tied up in tight knots, bound and
full of longing, hoping to leave something behind—
cast off memory of bruising, or thumbprint of heartbreak.

You gather yourself: strip off clothes and sandals
until skin shivers at bite of crisp new September air.
Leave your bare feet to ghost themselves on dock’s edge.

In now, and one yells It’s great once you’re in!
and another spots a hawk high above, gliding.
The sky is upside down, clouds like confetti tossed.

You come to it, inside out and upside down,
stretch arms and legs into likeness of a pinwheeled galaxy,
move like a seal woman, silver skin shedding the past.

You come to it, this lake that takes you in when no one else will.
You float, head back, eyes on sun, weeds braided into your hair.
There, a fish breaches, its ripples slow in kissing the shore.

You gather yourself. Float: weightless, emptied,
lighter than a feather, an eyelash blown wish, a blink.
Take a breath before going, hold it, then emerge.