Hazelyn Aroian

Boon Lake

Gravel snag, dust gone loose
as a faulty crutch.

Kicked-up grit
forms a grain: grove
by the parking lot sepia,
backlit
and pining.

Lakefront,
more phantom cramps.
Absent waves. Slip

knots, boats lisp against rope
as they sing that old song, the one
that starts with should.

The sun is distant.
Still, it animates the lazy scheme.

Kisses lakewater prismatic,
casts light out in line
after glistening line. Some lures
catch              

on glinting blades,
switchgrass swaying by the bank.
Some make it to the far side,
where leaves flip over
in the breeze. Let them bare
once-shaded underbellies.
No fury. No

release. And you reel.
You tremble
with layer after layer
of green.

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Hazelyn Aroian is from Central Massachusetts and studies English, computer science and philosophy at Northeastern University. She has work forthcoming in Strange Hymnal and elsewhere.