A Magazine of Many Arts

Eva Papasoulioti

The spirits of the lake warned you of her.
East wind blows from the northern side of the shore,
croons a secret in the veins of the leaves, a path
shaping the undercurrents
                                  directly to your mouth.

They say you can protect yourself.
Burn the woodstove all night, boil
eucalyptus bark until you can’t smell
your own sweat, and roast fresh chestnuts.
Sink them in the water, picture the morning.
Think of why she should spare you.
Drink them.
                        Think of why she’s after you.

She comes after moonrise,
steals your teeth,
burns the tips of your hair,
leaves bite marks in your pillow.
The whispers of old blood on your hands
echo in your head; reverberations of a time past.
                                   They’re all in your head.

Come morning you take the summer sun in
but the warmth slips from your boney fingers
lake water under your feet, in your lungs.
                                       The spirits welcome you.