LANA CROSSMAN

Gem Lake

Along the shoreline, tree roots
loosen themselves from the silt.

Algae-furred limbs swaying
in the water. A turtle descends

into the murk. Brumation begins.
Inside the cottage, your head is

swimming. Inside your guts,
something is bleeding. Your legs

dissolve and you fall like a towel sliding
off a rack, a soft gathering in my arms.

You’ll feel better tomorrow. The roots
will wave below the crust of frost.

It’s time to rest, settle, forget for now
the depths we go to keep afloat.