When you grow up near lakes, you test their limits. You try to rest your feet upon the surface without disturbing its skin. It is possible-there are bugs, viscosity. You are careless. There are not enough lunar eclipses. Only one brother to sing with. He will boost you over a wall. He will rap you in corduroy and set you on the Aerostar for a closer look. Where are your parents? Where is your sister?
If we are what happens when stars collapse, there is room enough for two in this boat. We can balance your extra weight with a cooler of beer. Don't feel body conscious, I'm just shorter than you. I paddle and paddle and we ride this wave all the way in. We capsize and right ourselves constantly. You may have all the knot-tying skills, but I have the iron lung. I have my playschool periscope and I can see around everything. Trust me, this mission was planned in advance. You were the final cog.
Will you tie our wrists together for the knife fight? We can dodge and burn. We can turn our skin to rust with these chemicals. The timer ticks off all the Thanksgiving dinners I'm reprinting. You at your mixing bowl, your arm mid-stir. Other beards root through your silverware drawer or light fires in the cooking pit. We all ice a cake with one big spatula.
People think the sky reflects the ocean, but it doesn't. It is all about refraction. Just like any time there is a double rainbow, that second rainbow (the paler one) is a reflection of the primary rainbow. Always upside down. This is all I know about wavelengths, about meteorology. Also, lightning strikes from the middle first, where charges meet. When your hair starts to stand on end, get on the ground and spread yourself out as much as possible. I love the fucking weather.
Caroline Cabrera is from South Florida, but currently lives in Amherst, Massachusetts where she attends the MFA for Poets and Writers at UMass Amherst. She is managing editor of Slope Editions.