Issue 13

Autumn 2014


All My Lessons

This morning, I am the only thing moving
the lake. Even the springs have stilled.

I cannot build to a wake with the hope
of reaching the far shore. If the fish

are feeding, it is invented from my desire
for company. I am a woman of imagination.

This morning, nothing cools me – I sublimate
to mist, tendrils rising from my skin. I would

boulder to the murk underfoot. Of all my
lessons, I have never learned to drown.

I can only wait, simmer to atmosphere,
my lake beginning to fall from me as rain.


Ruth Foley