Lisa Raatikainen

Mate

You were better than the ones who came before.

My mother was sure of it
the moment you first appeared behind the screen
door of our cabin
with your gifts.

The forest, the lake.
It was my birthday.
My breasts were small and high
in my damp suit. My hair
long and fine as any mermaid's.

The little iron teapot you'd bought settled heavy
in my two cupped palms as a human heart.

It did not grow legs and a badger's tail
and go yawping off under the August moon.

The little bird of lathed maple so unlike the loons
which haunt these deep black waters,

ancient and strange and calling
beyond the open window, a bed
where we lay quietly breathing

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Lisa Raatikainen is a poet and writer living in Vermont. Her poetry has appeared in Image Journal, Commonweal, Whale Road Review and elsewhere.