The lake is an open hand:
Splinters of sun and styrofoam,
Thrashing coots, cargo plane pelican landings.
These women, bearing their scull like a cortege.

The women chant numbers and commands,
A mantra to remake the lake in their image.
Beyond themselves, the words have no power.
Still the water splits itself, seals the wound.

The women’s watches stop with the fateful news.
It is not relayed to the wallowing cypresses,
Or to the cattails, whirring with red-wing blackbirds.
The lake is alive with unknowing.

A wind walks across on Jesus feet.
The women return to shore.
The shore waits for them to leave,
Licks itself clean.

(First published in Backchannels Spring 2024 Poetry Edition. Thanks to the editors.)