The Dead Lake

There is an island, in the lake.

We don’t know who lives there
but if this was a fairy tale
it would be a princess, trapped in a tower,
or a prince, monstrously transformed.

The landscape seems barren
but the grass, as dry as a deathbed
whisper, holds life.

The water contains
everyone who has ever been.
Preserved as if in a bubble,
salted away in an oiled stillness
broken only by sounds in our imagination.

We travel a lifetime to reach these shores.
Ringed by cliffs of ice
as unscalable as the afterlife.

Perhaps, on the island
a ferryman waits to facilitate
our final journey, for the right price.

Because how else will we leave this place?

Beyond is blinding.
The sun in the sky like the coin
in the mouth of a corpse.