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after Denice Frohman
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the lake i’m learning to swim in is choking under algae bloom.
when it was built, with water pumped from the housatonic,
a whole village was buried. if you dive deep enough,
you can still find the stone of foundation. now here we are, capsizing
our boats and peeling with shrills of laughter. girlhood of peril. have you seen
the way the earth arches its back towards the rim of the sky, a lover asking
for a gentle beginning. my body is so small and so much more daring
than it will be ever again. the thing that scares me the most was the silence.
the stillness of water. the clearing without the birds. the birds. they know things,
i think. every day we march to the mess hall, up billy goat hill, dripping
in youth. sometimes it rains, and the trail becomes more mud than gravel,
our hands more petrichor than flesh. moss unlatching from hollow trees in sheets,
mushrooms blooming at their base, a living dead. i want to tell you it feels familiar.
at night, you keep your light on until they make you snuff it. at night, the sky
turns its back on you. the only time you can see shooting stars these days is when
no one else is bothering to look. i want to show you how fast i can run.
you won’t believe it. i’m just a streak against the green. no one ever sees me
until i’ve already come. creature of unearth. i said i learned to swim but really
i just learned how to not drown so easily. you know,
they tell me there are mountain lions in those woods,
just there at the peak of those rocks, but i’ve never seen them
except in the maw of a campfire. mouths hanging,
eyes bright with hunger. invitation of teeth.
one day, i want to grow up to be just like them.
when it was built, with water pumped from the housatonic,
a whole village was buried. if you dive deep enough,
you can still find the stone of foundation. now here we are, capsizing
our boats and peeling with shrills of laughter. girlhood of peril. have you seen
the way the earth arches its back towards the rim of the sky, a lover asking
for a gentle beginning. my body is so small and so much more daring
than it will be ever again. the thing that scares me the most was the silence.
the stillness of water. the clearing without the birds. the birds. they know things,
i think. every day we march to the mess hall, up billy goat hill, dripping
in youth. sometimes it rains, and the trail becomes more mud than gravel,
our hands more petrichor than flesh. moss unlatching from hollow trees in sheets,
mushrooms blooming at their base, a living dead. i want to tell you it feels familiar.
at night, you keep your light on until they make you snuff it. at night, the sky
turns its back on you. the only time you can see shooting stars these days is when
no one else is bothering to look. i want to show you how fast i can run.
you won’t believe it. i’m just a streak against the green. no one ever sees me
until i’ve already come. creature of unearth. i said i learned to swim but really
i just learned how to not drown so easily. you know,
they tell me there are mountain lions in those woods,
just there at the peak of those rocks, but i’ve never seen them
except in the maw of a campfire. mouths hanging,
eyes bright with hunger. invitation of teeth.
one day, i want to grow up to be just like them.
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Lip Manegio (they/he) is a white, nonbinary dyke, poet, bookmaker, & designer. Their work has appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Puerto del Sol, Gordon Square Review, Tin House, and been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes. They serve as editor in chief at Ginger Bug Press and are the author of We’ve All Seen Helena. Find them at lipmanegio.com.
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