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“No shepherds. No nymphs. Maybe just one:
the girl the fawn strips like a fisherman’s rose.
Death turns its mouth red. It can no longer lie
in the lilies. Not on my watch. The lake is filthy
with silver fish sticky with leeches. Lovesick,
I flick a feather into the water. No stones.
Only the one in my pocket, heavy as a tongue.
— Beth Bachmann, “Elegy,” American Poetry Review, 37:2.”
―
the girl the fawn strips like a fisherman’s rose.
Death turns its mouth red. It can no longer lie
in the lilies. Not on my watch. The lake is filthy
with silver fish sticky with leeches. Lovesick,
I flick a feather into the water. No stones.
Only the one in my pocket, heavy as a tongue.
— Beth Bachmann, “Elegy,” American Poetry Review, 37:2.”
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