he holds his breath like
i do. cheeks ball
oon like a church his neck
tight as blood.
the boys in my cabin call me
lilac and after
morning worship we’ll learn
how to draw
a bowstring. the lake is
glassgreen and
the boys in his cabin call him
canary. he is from
where i’m from except i live
on the river at the
hearth of the hill. they ask
us to write a letter
to our fathers but the markers
smell like sidewalk.
we say grace and grace and
grace before our
bodies can know what
the throat knows.
one night canary
and i sneak out of our
cabins the moon
full as an accident. he teaches
me to swim.
his hands beneath my shoulders
making a boat
of our body. my hair in
his soft teeth. he
says do a flying dance with
your legs.
like you’re running up stairs
and no one can
hear your feet. he pulls
me under. his
laughter be
comes windows under water.
they film to
the surface then pop into
air near and round.
