Juli A. KROLL

COTTONWOOD, LAKE OF THE ISLES,
MINNEAPOLIS: JUNE 7, 2000

There is a moth the size of Turkey
spreading its gauze across your nape

while I wipe pear sap from my spine.

A square of green blinks open
a linen corridor beside the moon.

A ponytailed girl stoops to pee
without the light.

All these lives, I stick my fist in,
like a grover before the caterpillars regroup.

A television up the row splashes
bug light on my walls

and I think
how strange, before, the blue sky
seemed to strangle the cottonwood's

downy crotch it splayed at noon
while standing on its head.

And the happy dreams they wagged
were fluffy, unplanned farms.

 

On the lake yesterday two dogs bobbed
beside a log while the hippies sucked pot

and we swam out, each by each
past sentinel weeds
that grabbed us and hid.

We stroked, over secret sealanes
where bubbles bit us:
Kisses from deep fishes we longed to touch.

 

Down, to Atlantis you flickered an instant,
and I tracked you like warm lightning.

You bassooned, Fast!
Like a canoe
off oar and fishpole legs.

More cotton broke backs on the beach
then water nippled near

to minnow your head close suddenly
like a miniature in a fisheye lens.

 

I followed you in again,
past grabbing weeds and round rocks

past two black women laughing
at the stones they grabbed

laughing that they clacked the stones together
before dropping them to the mud...

 

On the coarse sand is
a large wool flowered blanket
that smells of winter

Where we spread our cold bodies together.

There is a baby
wading to its breeches in the froth.
It screams at the cold licks and log

and stones and sky

while the mother sets a pair
of shoes in the sun to dry

beside a white rabbit
and photo of Elvis.

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