Four diphtheria deaths, then fire, now five named lakes
with tranquil looks. Yet rampantly mad.
A lunatic shriek from a ruffian
child. One oar wrestled a mob of shore fringe, another,
the wet underbirth. And madness,
was it afflicted by demons? Or stricken of God? Or vision,
thrown on an empty mirror, and there you were?
Later, upstairs—the lakes packed away
in pearly cases, the coppery spin of a high skyward
arrayed against a leaded window—the chiasmic
question recurred. She recalled shy little lessons
from a girl named Renee on the unattainable freedoms
of the flesh. In the dining room, they would crumple
over the table like paper angels
if anyone raised an eyebrow.
Otherwise, they leaned against scenery—looking down
at their Bonniedale shoes
as if they were in love with nothing else.