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Bodies
Devon Neal
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How foolish we are to trust bodies
of water. How many times did my bare
childhood feet part the murky lake water
where the sharp edges of stones
slit at my soft soles, or glass teeth
chewed near my ankles? How often
did my fingertips skip like soft stones
on the surface as I sat at the boat’s edge,
life jacket like a strand of muscles at my feet,
the water spiked with spines? On vacation,
I walked among the thunderclouds of jellyfish,
edging along the precipice of drop-offs,
riptide sinews tugging at my limbs,
swallowing and swallowing and swallowing.
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