Monday, August 1, 2011

The Lake Land

The Lake Land

©8.01.2011 mykl g sivak

After weeks alone,
working a new job
living in a new place,

spending evenings plopped
in a canvas captain's chair,
in cowl necks and boxers,
smoking and drinking
bloody marys,

in the orange light of one
street lamp and glowing
maple leaves, on the
louver-glass porch

of my suburban street sublet,

wandering like a stray
past Harvard’s places
and peripheries,

I left Watertown for
New Haven, with plans
to track down old friends
in the hot night,

at Yalie bars, though
none of them were

At workweek’s end
I loaded the Jeep,
merged onto I-90
and wove through
the network of

Masshole drivers until
I was free and mostly alone
coasting fast through the
Lake Lands on the pike,

over/above the
highway cleaved waters
where swimmers and boatsmen
moved like water striders, only

appearing almost motionless
in photographic relativity,
where algal scent met
hot asphalt air.

Above a small reservoir ran
a low rusty trestle, and upon it
stood six figures, kids or teenagers,
hands joined, arms entwined,
a long braid of beige flesh.

From the distance and at speed
I could make out they stood on their heels,
toes above the water, about to leap in unison,
to break the water all together, at once.

I lifted my foot from the gas as they leapt,
but slowed only slightly and was back in the trees,
view obstructed, before their bodies broke the surface
of that nameless green pond

and moved on into dusk toward the place
I once, but no longer, lived to search out people
I wasn't sure I would find.

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