Moon and Lake

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
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

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