By the time we arrived at the edge
of the lake, the shore had already fallen away
to the willow and the feet of the green park bench
with one buckled side. I leaned my bicycle against the willow’s trunk
and watched its roots tumble like froth down the bluff. We talked until
I lost your face beneath the night’s closed eyelid; but never your purposeful distance
as we sat. That winter, the willow leaned and broke from the bluff
and in spring, when I went looking for you
I found it instead, its branches spread beneath the water
and roots reared high, its rotten trunk open
like a blossom.
Annalise Lozier is a Wisconsin native and sophomore at Yale. She enjoys tacky hats, writing poetry, and collecting shiny things she finds on the ground. You can reach her at firstname.lastname@example.org.