Lure
by Sarah Brook

In the kitchen, my mom is boiling maize.

Water's motion upward, away from the cadmium glow,

running until it spills over.

The silver glint from metal on the stove,

its flame contained in steel.

I remember the weekend at Horsehead Lake, how the water

was a mirror to half-broken shells pulled into the current,

taking life beneath waves. Sand browning blue,

clotting images.

I felt a stone pierce through my heel

with no remorse.

There was a girl who let her hand fall across her stomach,

the other hand sweeping a strand of hair.

She was watching me.

I wondered what she'd look like drowning.

Hair perfectly smooth, skin paling to blue,

body relaxed in falling.

Drifting to nothing.

I let the water pool around my calves, the waves leaving

sand where they touched.

It was the first time I saw a seagull take to air, watched waves

obey their boundary. I examined the lines on my palm,

and did not believe in God.

An old man cast his lure into the air and watched

as it fell into the blue, waiting for the suckling bluegill to bite,

knowing the sparkled rubber became a worm once it sunk.

In the kitchen, each kernel is warmed where it could have popped,

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com