Enchanted Egg #2
When you look inside through the tiny porthole the lake looks back without blinking.
A little girl has fallen from the raft floating away like a blue rooftop. She stands under water in clouds of silt and glitter. In the distance the undulant dark bed recedes till it is only horizon, the murky green light, the giant shape of father sleeping on the couch.
Great translucent rooms wander through one another. Even as her throat begins to burn, even as she is squeezed by a weight she can’t see, brained-shaped shadows cruise the floor. Things are distorted; when she looks down at her foot it has magnified to the size of a pale blue potato stuck in the silky earth.
This is the world the day she doesn’t die. Though it would be so simple. She’s formed no ties, she can’t read a clock. She might easily return to the oblivion she came from not so long ago.
At the end of the lake cupped on the white shore fathers and mothers are grilling meat. The sky is a dome as you always suspected.
It is a wonder that a lake can exist in so delicate a shell. The blue rooftop is skirting the shore. Below, the giant father rolls over on the couch, a fish flits by like a face, the water is absinthe, cat’s iris, the lucid world, the breathless, even as a pair of legs comes toward her, it is solitaire, even as an aunt’s arm reaches down, it is the moment she wants to look more than she wants to live and is cruelly rescued.