Rob Colgate

Gills Rock

 

I drift out
to the middle
in a pink tube;
something dead stays
stuck to me even here.
One hundred separate
screams fly out

of wooden boards.
A tin boat groans
against its mooring
and I hear myself
in the creak. Waves
push me into orbit,
spinning big circles

like the earth.
Dizzy collapse
down to the floor –
an overhead light,
or the moon.
Spackle stars
flaking off.
Earlier in the kitchen
my sister shouted

over whiskey gingers –
“Why don’t you
send him a postcard,
you said you loved
him, you said that
right to my face
just now.”
I’m only so brave

underwater. Every lake
needs a home. Every drop
of water is looking
for the next time around.
I say anything
and it gets caught
in the muck

where the small fish
swim. You’re a comet.
I’m the splash
on the surface. Something
in the water – an emptiness,
or bruises where I dragged
you into the lake with me.

A moment
and then the light
swims towards home.