ratchet lake

For years the dry lake rusted,

eighty frustrated acres 

pitching tantrums in our backyard,

throwing up trees where we’d cleared,

mocking our attempts to scape the land.

We plinked water balloons in the bed

with a .22, teasing ourselves,

as one gallon by one

spilled to disappear,

whiling the time elegizing

l’esprit qui passe.  

Or something else entirely—

a capacity.

We’d drive over new trees

not just to kill them

but to fuck them up,

to maintain we were more than nature.

All in the name of recreation.

This was the indicative illustration

at the top of a clean page

in a very old book, 

the words and the world

were ours now to speak.

We scraped our plans and mockups

and cleared the thrown-up trees,

transmuted the earth

from sponge to occlusion;

reinvested inheritance

into our legacy

and counted interest 

not yet returned.

Weirs diverted backflow

for bounties of mountain laurel

and geese alighted to our delight;

this ratchet lake lived.

Sun cresting the power lines,

we saw the light on the lake

for a breath of a moment

before the lenders came and took it,

dragging us from its banks.