Du Lac
My lover was born under a wet star.
He is not my first, but he is my favourite.
The waters of the lake hold the shape of my body in their silt.
I found him at the water’s edge,
blurring into the shallows like a mirage.
His hands slid over my shoulders
and droplets cascaded down the backs of my legs.
He is softly all-consuming,
peppering fresh scales onto my neck with his lips.
We mix our white and blue together
with wanting tongues.
He tells me roses cry for me,
and I love him freely in the afternoon sun;
we glisten like salmon on a fisher’s rod.
I dive the depths of my goblet in the summer heat –
I am unusually thirsty these days.
He twists me in his warm current.
I am learning to breathe underwater.