ROBBIE CHESICK

Portrait of a Marriage on a Lake

You usually take the oars
I usually don’t mind.
I like to daydream myself 
into a passing robin’s throat.
I want to feel its song before I hear it.
I’m aging and grown suspicious of the usual 
relational tics like jealousy or expecting another 
to make everything better.
Usually you make everything better.
I usually trust in the improv of sky-change 
to animate the lake in a way that absorbs me.
I’m aware that I expect the lake to share in the task 
of filling you when you feel lack.
I usually row towards the light 
reflecting water onto rocks and boles.
Your destination is circles.
My destination is now.
We are destined together, 
you, me, the lake and the osprey overhead
flaunting her dinner-fish.
On the north wing, a loon wails to her spouse.
Last week, two bobcats 
feasted on a nest of goslings.
Everyone was alarmed
but also relieved to not have to live 
with their shit on our docks.
I watch the wind enter at the outflow
touch every inch of lake-skin 
before flying into the arms of its true love
the trees—
with their needles, their leaves—
their fanfare makes the wind feel so wanted
it can’t seem to get enough.