Lake Couchiching Poem by Tara Teeling

We stood clothed,
on the edge of the dock,
lusting for the murky water,
trying to find words in the aqueous ink.
You dared me to jump,
and I thought seriously
about going in with my shoes on
and leaving all my plans on the
copper-scorched grass.
This would mean the surrender
of good judgment and careful makeup,
without really knowing
where it would lead me.
This would be a heavy sacrifice.

I decided to leap,
but insisted on changing first,
not thinking it might get colder,
or that the moment
had already gone.
I shed the clothing,
pulled on the black, ruched suit
and sauntered like a sly cat
shooting swift, furtive blinks
with marble-cool eyes.
We returned to the dock,
and the sun was somewhere different,
holding a little back,
making me wonder if I were so wise.

I don’t remember crashing
through the rippled glass
or what I thought when
its razor-cool cut me,
turning my blood into rubies.
I can only recall your delight
and the sounds you made
as you circled me in triumph,
sloshing madly, reeling me in.
The longer we paddled,
the warmer the water seemed
and at first, I didn’t want to get out.

Slimy rocks and slithery reeds
were all around me,
bruising and tangling my feet,
tainting the sweetness.
A dead white fish was floating
like a lost flower strewn
in a sunny day celebration,
bobbing without reason.

Like a frenzied feline
clawing for her liberty,
I groped the edge of the
slick dock, feeling for
a way to pull myself out,
desperate for safety of
the earth that I knew.
Thrashing and sliding,
losing my grip,
over and over.

And you thought
I was having fun.

I lifted myself up,
despite your eyes on me,
and shook it all off,
one dropp at a time.

You decided to stay,
to sulk or punish,
but you looked at home,
so I padded back
with my head down
to avert the rays that
looked to burn me,
leaving liquid footprints
in my shadow.

I tell myself
that they’ll be gone,
eventually.