on being grieved, or the chemistry of Lake Superior, pt I:

Your gaze is the underbelly of rocks unskippable
jarred, not smooth enough -
discarded by vacationers.
You look towards - pale blue approaching.
I shut every lash
sweet cold imprints on flesh, over flesh -
hands raised up to check:
I have a body
I have a gaze that is not my own.

I have a body.
I gaze.
And I swim with hands centered, outlined, shaped -
the wet moss surrounds.

I in the water, you thrashing upwards -
late December agate splitting open
cracked and dry skin blue.