Everyone who knows me best
is gone. I walk the pine needle
paths of the island—a kind of body,
sinking in a grave lake.
Before the dam, it was a hill
on connected land. The trees
take up residence in an alternate
space—reflections in water,
rippling impressions of themselves.
How we revere our ghosts:
the reflections shimmer so. Once,
I saw a snake here, silent in the branches
of a wild blueberry bush. She stared
at me with those devil eyes—
I was perhaps the first woman
she’d seen, and I was tempted
to reach toward her. If she struck,
I’d have proof—my alive hand, the blood.
Or it’s possible she never really saw me,
only perceived me in shadow, the shape
of me laid out darkly on the ground.
(Italian Americana, Winter 2025)