The Maynard
Spring 2018

Liar’s Dice

My hands are under the roots under the trees, and the trees are under the lake.

Walter, the flood, made me swear not to snitch on him if my mom found the magazine.

And animals and rope burn are one animal. Face redder in each bee-dipped finger.

I am digging into the dam with my bare hands. I get a letter for the guy here before me.

When they blow the dam, will the river meet the sea? The river stays apart from the sea.

I am not a bobtail. Walter gave me a name with no sound. I am elbow-deep in the dam.

My aperture: he said he’d make a diamond of my magazine-crowded mouth.

As chosen as a photo, as familiar to a harbor as a neighbor with no shoes.

Walter lost a calf playing liar’s dice.

It was sand in the dam. Sand that trapped my fingers. Sand that traced the equator.