The water came up and hit us
in the face. We were cool
below in a green rubber land.
Sylvia’s breast escaped
rubbing up against her ear.
She stuffed it back into its cage.
Seaweed swayed, danced the hula.
Johnny darters wove through
the grass warp like silver shuttles.
Our feet vanished beneath
four inches of dust covered bones.
We moved like blown-out junkers
clouds of yellow smoke trailing behind.
Above, in undulating walrus somersaults,
a school of carp color us green
with shadows like jungle camouflage.
Ahead, the bottom turns to fur,
fuzzy tree skeletons, hairy stones.
Eyes glow like flash lights
as walleyes watch us pass over. A musky,
face the size of a boot, holds ground
moving fins as if playing a harp.
His silver and green sides arc
like a welder’s torch as he torpedoes forward
up the pair of eyes still on us.
Sandra Nelson is a sculptor and literary artist. “Bone Lake”
first appeared in Kansas Quarterly.