the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees
not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression
and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks.

this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe
appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us.
kee no wahh she spits with conviction,
her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction
that keeps its ugly head low to the ground
in the backwater communities of
rural ontario and manitoba
and saskatchewan
and beyond.

purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck
and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat.
now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield
leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline
and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to
filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush
and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel
identical to the lining of my ****

so ask me how many children have been
stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs
and i'll stop making references to my ******

The fog here is thick, until you step into it.  
The storm rages until you get to its eye.  
I wish this same principle could be said of me, too.  
But like a gas giant, you could slip right through me with
                         the smallest amount of pressure.
There is no calming sense of self at the core.
Gravity does not apply to me.

There’s a boat on the lake cutting through the fog.  And then nothing.  
                                                      ­                                    More waves.  
                                                        ­            More birds.  
              The fog covers it all up again.  
The sun slinks and the tide comes in, or is it out?  Does it matter?  
The moon controls it in some way—the push, the pull of the waves.
At least the lake looks blue today,
                           looks green today.
The geese are in the water now.  The families are packing up.  
                             The ice cream shop is closing.

And I do not remember if I was ever here with you.  
                                This, of course, is a collective you.  
Could mean you, my reader,
                                               could mean one specific person,
                                               or two
                                                             ­       or three
                                                                ­                          or four;
could be whoever I'm thinking of when I reread this to myself.  
That’s the funny thing about the litany of loss.  
                                           It all starts to congeal.  

Waves crash against the rock.  Starts to chip away, create something new.
                                                      That’s what memory does.
It’s not permanent.  It’s malleable.  
Flexible.        Bendable.        Moldable.  
It smells like lakewater.  Like
                                                  fish and sand and mud and
                            gulls and rocks and shells and
     algae and fog—thick, thick fog.  
Smell is supposed to be one of the biggest memory triggers, and yet
                                       I cannot place a single memory of you here.
                                                    And that’s mildly crushing.  

So I would take you here:
                                              to where I wish the air was
                                                       saliter and less earthy.  
                                              to where I come sometimes to think.  
                                              where the clouds are so thick and puffy and
                                                            the setting sun makes them look like                                                                cotton candy on the Fourth of July.
                                              where the sun’s reflection on the water
                                                                ­      turns the green lake pink.  
                                              where the geese are back out of the water and
                                                                                                     onto the shore.
I would take you here with me.  
Into a new memory.  
                                      Homemade.        Handmade.        DIY.

It smells like summer on the island
Like laundry and leaves
Like late-afternoon lakewater
And pollen-filled breeze
I remember my summers on the island
The bunkbeds and bonfires
Beaches, bikinis
And dirt roads under dark tires
Birch trees and blackberries
Blue birds and sour cherries
Two hours on the ferry
Summer on the island
Lawn chairs and lemonade
Hammock-hanging, holidaying
Laying in the lazy shade
Hiking high into the bright blue sky
Deep inhale and satisfied sigh
We had been waiting for this
Our summer on the island
Cold tides and closed eyes
Penny candy and pecan pie
Crop-tops, flip-flops, tree-forts and drop-offs
Crayfish, crayons
And breakfast on the dock at dawn
This was summer on our island
Millions of mosquitoes, minnows and movies till midnight
Eating smores in the smoky firelight
Running through the trailer park in the rain after dark
Our summer on this island
Everything was my favourite part
I loved it all
The grass
The trees
The foamy waterfall
Sun, seagulls and sand dunes
Either services or sleeping in till noon
Sweet island summer, over too soon
Summer on the island
Was a lifetime ago
The island was my summer
But I’m letting go.

how do i describe the feeling of that january morning? the serenity of the cool air nipping at my skin, while the chilled lake water rocked the wooden dock beneath me. i took the peaceful walk from the house to the lake barefoot. the coolness emanating from the cobblestone seeped into the soles of my feet.
      i walked down the winding pathway and allowed my eyes to scan over the greenery that flanked me on both sides. tulips and lavender flowers blooming in the cold air. mulch filled the area around grass and flowers, keeping them protected and safe. bees kissed flowers and mingled as i strolled passed. how beautiful and tranquil a scene i was honored to witness.
      i dragged ironically eager feet over wobbly brown planks on route to the dock ahead. i felt water sway aggressively beneath my feet as a boat raced past the dock. a glimpse of a small hand waving graced my vision with the passing of the boat. my balance fumbled, but my mentality stayed steady. when i finally lowered myself onto the wooden box on the edge of the dock, the warmth of my coffee finally began to soak into my palms.
      my eyes continued to glaze over the scene before me, and for the next few moments, i felt the serenity of the universe consume my entire begin. after sixteen years, a moment of fulfillment. finally at home.
      the sun sent droplets of his sunlight down to caress the lake and offer her the gentlest of kisses. the droplets glistened off of the lake´s ripples and flirted with the water. they danced and bounced upon the lake until she shone so brightly it was hard to look directly at her. as the two became familiar, i felt the sun retreat. his light slowly faded away and his kisses disappeared all together.
      as the hours passed and he was seated back upon his throne, the lake was left empty, deserted. her sadness did not go unnoticed, the wind understood her pain, so she picked up and pulled us both out of our trance.
      the lake was offered the kinder kiss of the moon, and she accepted. the fainter light and the lighter kisses became what kept her whole. there was a air of mystery surrounding him and the lake soaked it up. he became her new lifesource, she found something that kept her going.
      me, i received my sustinance from writing this poem.

rain touches earth girl
first time in months
she wonders what curse is next to
lay between borders and train tracks
promising to be broken
that's the way she went

hear me in my silence
im not a good offer of condolence
plea bargains no good enough
your eyes of lakewater, me a pretty face
but i am a stranger to you
and i look like earth

In cold weather, green shines brighter
In the pale blue light's glimmer
Twincandescent, like a moon on still lakewater
Feathers flown across by warm breezes
Seasons changing
Again, it seems
A leaf in pondscum
Peace found in giving leave to ideals of
Incandescent oily tar
Polarized truth, begging for a knife
Vampirism at it's finest
Why then tragedy inflicted mindedness
Surprising kindness found in sappy outlets
Like wounds carved in letters in cypress's
I aspire
Despite
To be enough.