Lake Galena

Really there wasn’t any water,
a town at the bottom
or a letter pinned to a gull.
The bed had dried from drinking
and fish swallowed the lead
until homes washed ashore.

Us, unburied with the sun
on its hind legs, deer nipping
at dead turtles across the floor.
Sharks finished digging
and lay still. Pearls thirsty
turned back to lichen,
lichen back to sunburn.

We too believed in sin,
still fed from dry ground.
Pieces bottomed, blues
of every catfish and glass bottle.
We only stopped when full,
listening to kestrels in flight.
Wing-beats, the echoes
of the not-yet-hungry.

Tyler Kline