I
The
surface of the lake riffles in the morning breeze —
Boats
burble at their moorings.
I
woke feeling particularly white, visiting
This
lake, sleeping in a cabin nestled among other cabins.
We’ve
been coming here for years.
A
bird cleaves the sky; it’s today.
I’m
acutely aware imagination shapes the land and the lakes;
how
we claim space or know our place requires our presence.
I
know this lake is older than the name it bears,
That
it was known by another name long before any Millers showed up,
But
I don’t know what that name is; and I want to sit here next to the lake,
Read
my book, and think.
A
loon stitches the surface of the water
And
trees along the opposite shore.
II
Because
it is summer
I
can enter this lake,
And
because of my privilege
When
I enter this lake
It
is another lake my
Privilege
cannot see
In
which I find myself.
Privilege
is blind, an
Agent
bestowed upon
Me
by my age. I know
About
it because others
Know
— others always
Know
what I do not.
And
they tell me what
I
need to know. Here
Inside
this lake is another
Lake,
and I may or may
Not
know it is into this lake
I
emerge, submerged
In
the present, where it is
Quiet
and murky, and
There
is a history, even if
I
cannot see it entirely.
Please
tell me what it is.
III
Birch
bark became to middle with green,
Which
also became to muddle with sky.
Perhaps
we can remember everything together;
Work
hard, ignore what we think is real, rely on the possibilities
The
shifting ground has. Doesn’t every
Square
inch of ground contain multitudes?
One
does not contain multitudes by saying so:
Language
is finite, it stops bodies from walking through open doors.
It
is a privilege. And to have the privilege to say privilege —
Doors
must have walls to frame them, and walls will frame a body
So
a body can sit indoors and watch the sudden arrival of rain
Greening
the grass and the leaves trembling the limits of branches
And
contemplate long enough to compose a poem.
IV
We
remember fewer birds now
But
their songs ring out. They
Are
framed by what we see,
By
what we think we know.
But
they are still birds. We are
Still
people, living our lives
And
either listening or not,
Move
through time. Will
The
fear of saying the wrong
Thing
ever pass? It is impossible
Not
to say the wrong thing.
Power
is inherent to language.
It
is impossible not to give the
Birds
what we want them to have,
Things
they never asked for,
Or
want, or even need. To make
Them
human, even if we don’t
Think
they are. Description as
Denaturalization
— the function
Of
language — how it ascribes,
It
captures, it colonizes, whether
A
bird or another, it makes
That
other yours.
V
The
truth of the matter:
We
are engaged in a civil war of memory.
I
want to see a landscape for what it is
Full
of presence and erasure
I
want to know the truth of a place
As
much as I want to live in it.
I
want this lake to be mine
A
body inside my body
As
my body can be inside its body
And
allow other bodies to do the same.
