Wakulla Springs

I found me a cranny of perpetual dusk,

mastodon tusk, burnt wood

at spring bottom.

I dragged down low

the parts of myself

I couldn’t carry,

thought to burn

those diaries as catfish

whiskered my thighs.

In the lodge, visitors

dripped aqua-blue

over marble floors,

ate canned cherries,

potatoes cut into a face.

The anhinga flapped

furred wings.

I kept down low

thought to burn

my tick-bitten breast,

every creature

crossing my chest.

Hydrilla choked the swamp.

Rivers merged

and said no more

thus the black lagoon.

I don’t suppose

you knew dearest

among eel-light

and daggered palms

I made you mine by

perishing I meant to shine.