Devil’s Lake

Kibosh: this beautiful hat may fit you some day—its lining like the fields at year’s end, un

kempt and deadly golden. Please linger long enough to be crowned again, platonic

king of the migratory ball. I am queen. It is winter now. Two tallboys and a half-pint of

Kessler into the night, a cord of wood in the shed, three crumbs of cocaine on the tip of a

knife. Last year you asked if I ever wanted children, and I said it depends on who to have the

kids with. When you turned to agree, the toaster burst into flames. Typical. We put it out with

kosher salt, left it smoldering at the end of the drive, backed away in opposite directions,

kept going. By summer, home was thousands of miles from home. In the winter

kitchen, old world poison glistens. I cannot say if you are here or if I am sitting only with the

knowledge that you exist. Tonight’s snow is moonlight pink, the color of bear flesh. I filled a

kettle with marbles and tinsel, some things I will not say, and a handful of miscut

keys. It’s hidden it out in these woods, past the grove of painted tree trunks, the

keel of my family’s land. A map for you or your specter: dive gleeful into the bone-chill lake,

kow-tow again to the water gods, kneel down in the forest, say something sweet. Shake the

kettle if you find it and the noise will mimic our cosmic weirdness, a kerrang in slow waves.

Kneel down in the forest and masturbate. Do something agreed upon and gently ridiculous;

keep your good eye on the road, friend, and my name in your throat. I’ll bloody your

knuckles as you snake-bite my wrists. Just a few naked grace notes in dried grass, no

kisses. A film of spider’s webs above the water. Silent, side-by-side, the

knots in our tongues ouroboric as we bathe in Sherwood Creek. Let’s

keep our eyes shut, the only way we can both see perfect.