You Undo Me

Poetry

Ian Sherlock

After a spat over a clove hitch, you led me to the

biggest lake that I had ever seen. Our own private island,

just us, the squirrels, and the chickadees. I wondered

about a squirrel’s swimming ability. I had a hard

enough time with a canoe and paddles, clumsily cutting

water and splashing your back. I was not much of an

outdoorsman, and you never gave my greenness

any quarter that week. One foggy morning, it began

to pour. I could feel something building for days, but I was too

scared to warn you. We spent the whole day in the tent, playing

cards in silence, and I showed you something that resembled love.

While we laid back-to-back, the plunking of rain

on the cerulean nylon soothed me. When I closed my eyes

it would hold me and tousle my hair, and whisper secrets

about nature in my ear. When the sun shone again,

the chickadees sang another song. But this time their

hey sweet-ies sounded like go swim-ming.

The lake was cold and tickled me like

I was wading in club soda. I sank down and

let Adam’s ale up to my cheeks. I stared at the horizon where

blue met blue, no idea where Saranac ended and

sky began. I swept you up and spun us around

in the water. I cradled you and kissed you singing

Brown Eyes, Why Are You Blue? and treated

you just as Mother Nature treated me the night before. You

said it felt so new, to swim somewhere where nothing

can eat you. I put you down and bolted for that hazy azure line.