first, to visit, you have to be lost. second,
there will be no guide, so open your eyes.
the lake before you is just a diversion.
watch out for the lonely boat, beating
itself against the shore. check below
the seat. there, you shall find an oar and
or a map. it doesn’t matter. row through
the tributaries, the ebbing crowds of silt.
don’t stop to rest. that’s how they get you.
beneath, you feel presences stalk you:
rusalkas that remind you of other yous;
the selkie of questions that end with you.
keep rowing. by now you’ve lost the map,
but your arms know where to go, like you
were always meant to go there. soon you
see it: that mirror of the moon, single plain
of glass. arms flail below, unseen weeds.
you shatter the surface with your oars.
they sink without a trace. turn around.
the path you’ve taken is gone, too. you
don’t need those anymore. look around you.
this is the place where all spilled spirits go.
dive in, into the lake of your mother’s womb.
where the only way the world could hurt would
simply be to be: nothing more, nothing less.

—
singpowrimo 2018 day 1 – the h2o prompt