by J. P. Dancing Bear
You are the shape of death kneeling among the lily pads.
The laid-out, prepared, bodies not sleeping.
The crucifix was your own, borrowed, put to use here…
splayed to look like a sacrifice, upright, a punishment,
a lesson plan, a warning.
It is a mythic lie to think of the carcass as reclined, relaxing,
sleeping on their lily beds.
It is as if your pink skin is a poison
and you've cleared this pond by diving in. Something you
are known to do—some might even call it a signature move.
you are scheming in concrete. You see the little dead
harbingers cleared away for a kiddy pool.
You close your ears and shout la-la-la should anyone
accuse you of being an animal too, an introduced specie,
that enters like a bullet. The sky is a harsh season—
fallout rain as a condemnation. Wading further in,
the browning leaves and dying fish in your wake, you say
its water off your back, though no duck will land here.
Some Are So Close