1.
Do not assume this lake
is suitable for haunting.
Ask yourself:
is it murky with life?
Choked with algae?
Are there bluegill?
Whitefish?
Midges?
Are Pleistocene spirits already
inhabiting these shores?
Do you see
the thumbprint of a giant sloth,
a mammoth, tusk snapped
by an unfortunately timed step,
a single,
petrified
brachiopod?
Epochs etched,
lovingly,
into every
crag.
Are there any
hollows
left
for
me?

2.
Do not leap, unbidden,
into its depths.
Only another spirit
may summon you.
Ask yourself:
did I see a willow-armed girl,
her hair silver filament,
her eyes
bottomless
and hungry?
Did I glimpse a ship,
masts like crooked fingers
beckoning?
Did the bitter wind
moan
my
name?

3.
Do not wail your troubles
into the water Romantically.
Ask yourself:
am I content
holding
my weariness
in my breast,
phantom breath
burning
with words unsaid
and fleshy regrets?
Am I prepared to
drift,
list,
lee,
formless as jelly,
my voice reserved
only
for special,
terrible
occasion?

4.
Do consider your options.
A meadow,
green
and sun-smothered.
A bungalow,
heavy with cigarette stains
and unhappy marriages.
A graveyard.
A playground.
A stiletto,
forgotten
beside a bus stop,
and desperate
for
companionship.
A pebble
on a warmer,
gentler
beach.

5.
Do ask yourself:
if this northern lake
perished,
its glassy body succumbing
to heat or industry
or suburban sprawl,
exposing limestone roots,
if this northern lake
abandoned me,
as so many have
abandoned me,
disillusioned and wanting
beauty and safety
and love,
would I mourn it?
Would I, alone,
after epochs,
after eons,
choose
to
remain?

© 2023 Lora Gray