I dreamed my brother gave his dog to a friend in New York
who could better care for him. we walked into the woods
behind the wintered swim club where the swan babies
held their bonfires. I was never invited, never ran my hand
through Sara R—’s dark hair or let Amanda A—’s bird tongue
flit in my mouth. instead of the pool, I summered in woods,
following forest paths to nowhere, policing the creek
with other uninvited trees. we knew a thing called a crayfish
dug a mudhole. we knew the creek eels were slippery garbage.
the drop-down promise of land on the other side was why we swung,
both hands trusting thickness of rope, letting our weight make air
as we swam through space. it was never we expected the rope to snap,
never we expected the fish to bite, never we expected our first kiss
so ugly, so much like a wet fat snail, not at all like the spell said.
March 9, 2020 Poetry
HOLD ME OVER THIS BOILING CAULDRON BUT PLEASE DON’T DROP ME IN
Kimberly Ann Southwick
image: Laura Gill
