The Fieldstone Review

Boathouse

Enter where the breath is held
in cautionary devices:
the save-your-life red
of a buoy-o-buoyant chest,

walls that can't be trusted
if you stumble -- they are hooked
hung on nailheads that are backing out.

Where the planks are built on silk
nurseries, the slung gaps
of waves, dark as eggspill
held in the cracks.

Where an outboard turns
its stemless garden
petrol irridescences,
oil lilies, leech bodies
curled up like seed.

And at the centre
a tin boat bobs
in the metric give
of housed water, grandpa's
pale blue knees, the soft chalk
of a wet dock
about to crumble.

Light rots
a dirty net
cast
flared gill
of the pickerel
dying
around a small toothed
hole. Sun

fins under
the door, a guillotine
dripping
its soaked, twisted

rope, the age-spotted
strain
of an entire lake
veined
through your fist,
a 70-year-old
knot.