At the Reservoir

We stood, hesitating for a moment in the willows together before peeling off our final layer of underthings.  I don't remember who started undressing first, but I remember thinking it was kind of cliche to be skinny dipping by moonlight.  In the prickly darkness, I faltered, fumbled, almost ripping my underwear in embarrassment--Faith had already splashed away from the bank.  Finally bare, I staggered into the water, quickly sinking to my knees to hide my nakedness in the shallows of the reservoir. 

(Eight months from now these measly thirty-six inches of water will have receded enough so we can run fast, losing each other in the moon mist, our sneakers tracing these moon cracks thrust upwards, puckered like scars racing under our feet.  I will expect these moon cracks to crumble, dusty under my fingertips, but when I press the ground, my finger sinks, making a hole whose walls are caked, neither wet nor dry.  We will leave a million shoe prints on that moonscape.)

Still crouched, the water swirls under my armpits, swirling water, warmer than the air.  Deep or clouded waters usually frighten me, but I find I can melt my limbs, my skin, my lips into this wide, dark basin, warm like tears, like blood.  Its slippery comfort envelopes me as I hug my knees, nostrils barely breaking surface like a lazy crocodile.  I am crouched, immobile this way as young bodies splash and crash around me.  I am this way, sinking in mood mud, learning to breathe through my eyelids.