A twentieth century telephone receiver
a female kind of architrave
lends itself to my hand
in a cascading of gesture
from one lip to another
mine to yours
daughter to mother
Behind it all
the lake
Behind it all
the still black lake
I dial
my index finger trapped
in its round plastic contract
and the lake answers
I know, now, about the inkwell
I know how the back of an eye
feels
that connection
without voice, the hole
voice might fall into
The lake
the still black lake
A havering at the margins
might be insects
or you
buoyed by being
so close to nothing
I think of Lake Karachay
where radioactive sediment
could kill within the hour
and speak
Jane McKie