Rossport

Fall out into the plume of mist, shrouded in my coat. Rub a hand across the bumps of my gooseflesh, as if I could iron them off my skin. Breathe in. Crack the bellows open; let the moisture in my morning lungs. I can see only my bare feet before me in the fog, as they step, steps of peril on damp rocks and wooden planks. Creak along the boards; follow the emerging glow, of a string of lights to a spot high on the boulder.If the mist would clear, I would see the lagoon. A pair of rotting lawn chairs stare at the water.

I descend the rock to find my father, consumed in his camera, trying to capture fungi growing on the stone. I leave him to his distraction, allowing us this time alone in each other’s distant company.

Come to the road, two grey sheets in each direction. There’s no one else to find me if a car leapt out to mow me down. Drag my naked toes across the asphalt and into the mud of the bank. Breathe in, the black soil anticipating my brittle bones. Run my fingers through the reeds. Spread the dew over my pelt, searching for sensation.

A spider web hangs between two blades of grass, adorned with droplets, its owner immobilized from the chill. A diamond necklace abandoned to the weeds. I wish I could gild myself in its arachnid elegance. Breathe in, the scent of the Bellflowers now catch in my throat. They wait for bees who cannot fly to them in this cold.

My head rises at the call of a loon; a badminton bird, pitching up, up, as though struck, then arcing before the plummet to earth, and cut like a yoyo string. It sends a hook into my belly and dives down, down into the pit of the lake, pulling me with it, making me choke on the dark water, until I feel like drowning. Swallow. I ache to hear one more call, to rip out my gut, and take it far, far away from me.

2017