They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Lake Ontario | Molly Weigel

Strewn with driftwood lapping gently she

strides in with her clothes on water

slapping her big thighs a big

unrecognizable rodent with

“maggots coming out of its butt”

tiny breakable freshwater mussels pink

plastic tampon case because there are

no shipworms, they say, and the water

is so cold, the dark bottom’s

an underwater museum, all shipwrecks,

all leavings perfectly preserved.

Hank builds a long, low mountain ridge,

decorates it with tiny mussels, “Mount Rushmore

before it was Mount Rushmore, when

it belonged to the Indians,” who cause

an avalanche and send the mountain tumbling

onto the white people, so they can’t have it. So

nobody has it. He has dug in vain for Indian

artifacts. The driftwood stays cluttered

at the edge unmoved by tides. The big

limpid eye of water floats above the shore

and can’t be seen all at once.