Spring 2008, Volume 32, Number 1

Even the fireflies here are lochetic,
waiting to scoot their lemony asses

right up to my skin, to expose their short
streetlight sparks when I least expect it. Mace

and cloves from the bakery still dusting
my fingers, I grow talons of housekeys

that slash the August air, that sad frotteur
pushing against my shirt. Its little huffs

of damp wood and mud pour a fluvial
soup between my breasts. Behind me the owl

whistles its come-on, and I snap my legs
open and shut, a switchblade in the dark.

Jennifer Perrine’s first collection of poetry, The Body Is No Machine, was published by New Issues in 2007. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Bellingham Review, Green Mountains Review, Nimrod, RATTLE, and Spoon River Poetry Review. Perrine lives in Des Moines, Iowa, where she teaches at Drake University.

Spring 2008, Volume 32, Number 1

Alone on an aluminum fishing boat rocking on gentle waves, I can see the island just ahead, though the hand-built cabin at its center remains hidden from view. Its familiar presence tugs at something behind my chest, not the heart, but somewhere nearby. Easing off of the accelerator lever at my backside brings the lightweight, twenty-five horsepower motor clamped to the rear of the boat to a low rumble. I throw the motor into neutral and kill it. The boat comes in slightly off angle and I have to catch the dock with my hand to prevent a collision. The single plastic bumper tied to the side of the boat hits the water with a tight plop when tossed overboard. With only one bumper in the middle of the boat, instead of the logical pair with one tied at each end, it does little to keep the boat away from the dock. Instead, the lone bumper, unable to function outside of a pair, acts as a fulcrum around which the boat swivels back and forth. There are already two fair-sized dents in the side, one at the top and one at the bottom, where the aluminum siding has caved inward.

Stepping out on the dock, I loop the stern rope through and around the two mooring cleats at the corners of the dock. The boat secured, I scan the island, no larger than a football field. I caress my shaved head from the top of my scalp all the way down to the nape of my neck, admiring the way the prickly texture hugs the not-so-feminine curve. Someone would probably mistake me for a man, if there was anyone around to make such a mistake. I breathe in deep, hard. By mid-fall the weather will have already started to turn. The leaves will wither, peel away, and take flight. The first snowstorm will roll through and instill the air with a crisp, sterile scent like a hospital restroom. Another month and the entire lake will freeze over. If not disassembled and taken ashore, the permanent docks (as their fraudulent builders call them) will be forced out of place, distorted and destroyed as enormous shifting blocks of ice from below the surface of the lake are forced upwards by newer, deeper sheets of ice forming at even greater depths, lifting and grinding the docks up against the earth. After about two months, the two-lane road leading up to the marina will periodically be declared impassible, often for weeks at a time. By then the lake will be empty and alone, except for me.
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