Devil’s Lake

Simon thinks a kiss is both the life and death of God.

He says Alyosha was right all along,

but I don’t know who that is. The truth is,

for all its humorless tilling and bad stabs at balm,

kissing accomplishes nothing but restlessness

and a dry nose. What makes it irresistible

is its wetness like some half-thought

that keeps me curling forward. If it weren’t

for clothing or ice, I’d never really

want to be dry. I’d hate everyone but breasts

and dawn like a spoonful of black oiled wool.

I love my mother, but I wish she were happier.

If I could build a place for her to rest, I’d build

the center of a peony bud, and her parents

would be alive like two ants setting her free.

I found my first haunting

hanging from the roof by his enormous hands.

I did not think the dead needed saving

from the weakness of their grip,

but as it turns out their screams

are more honest than wolf crying.

I am going to kill you, he said,

and still I retrieved a ladder

and helped the haunting down.

I am going to kill you, he said

as finally we stood beside each other.

The grass was tall

and beneath the grass I felt remorse

like a line of insects crawling up my legs.

The haunting lowered his head

and began to weep—he could not

fulfill his duty, so I took my shirt off

and gave it to him. The shirt

I had found earlier in the day

in a birdbath no bird would bathe in.

No bird would bathe in it.