Lucy
Holme

               Unguarded, we float in the last of lingering rays.

               Lapped by lucid azure nostalgia

               we grasp the delicate landscape,

               the rich thread that stitches us together,

               while above, the indigo hills sink and spread.

               Clad in sun burst gingham, you hold my arms

               as I peer into shallow pools

               your body behind mine

               Piz Buin and Fragonard on your wrists and neck.

               An inverse ratio of fresh spring water

               and saturated brine

               sneaks heat from the day

               precipitates the sting and burn

               as the lake consumes us, subsumes us.

               I hear the rustled fabric of your dress

               as you pull it over your head, run thumbs

               over hand-stitched pockets crammed with pebbles.

               See your careful mask fall as he wades in,

               our mass now a burden shared.

               Our father hikes the baby onto his shoulders

               but he is no longer a baby, so he’s hard to carry,

               thighs pinching flesh with unguessed weight,

               firm and gleeful in his crow’s nest perch.

               And though it is cooler and getting late

               we fashion a pillowed seat of sand and seaweed.

               Stretch shiny shins, watch the surface ripples.

               Agree to pay no mind to the drifting current,

               how it beckons us gently under.