A Stepmother’s voice cuts
through the campground:
Who left the cooler open?
Who moved the ******* cushions?
Her words snap the branches.
My father, just arrived,
hat wet with sweat,
stooped to tie the boat off at a tree,
met at once by her complaints,
her tally of our failures.
Her glare pressed hot against my back.
I climbed the pine,
legs scraping bark,
eyes fixed on the shimmer below-
anywhere but here.
She was there:
elbow on the water’s skin,
hair spread like wet silk,
eyes pouring over me.
Come with me, she said.
Where?
Down there.
She smiled, copper arm pointing to the deep.
It’s warm.
The fish brush your skin.
I remembered: sirens don’t save you.
They keep you.
She dove,
silver tearing water’s face,
and the lake closed like a locked door.
When she rose,
her shoulders gleamed like knives.
Laughter rolled toward me,
the same heat as the shore,
only sweeter.
Your turn.
I leapt.
The lake’s mouth closed over me.
Green-gold everywhere.
Her hair against my cheek.
Her tail’s slow beckoning.
I followed
until the light shattered above.
I almost stayed-
not to drown,
but to live where the voices could not reach.
