Our Common Depths
This body huddles
beneath the sodden cloak of an ache
no one’s yet named.
We are watchful in the quiet,
this body and I,
each waiting for the other’s consent
to this position or that pill,
whether we will lie open as fine wines waiting
or wrap ourselves tight to trick touch.
We are both allowed to dream here.
We imagine lake-water’s purl around stones
before the birds have sung,
water’s cool-drink slip over neglected skin,
its generous allowance for this body in a curative yes,
a please-slide-in-deeper-to-the-soft-bottom yes.
We dream of its geography’s yes,
the shore as our vessel’s door;
the planetary dialogue
of every beaded drop speaking to our skin
of all the places it has been;
the dappled sheen of lake trout and northern pike
flickering ghost-quiet through the water,
allowing rest inside the tenor of their slipstream.
With our fingertips against the bed sheets,
we dream this land and its shorelines,
its bright borders willing themselves out
along a warp and weft
we can roll through,
settling soft into our common depths,
where we can rest for our naming.