Poems by Caroline Arakelian

MY LAKE

Walk down the hill past the granite boulders
filled with holes the Indians pounded,
poison oak sprouts through the cracks.
You can still find flat red beads and tips
of arrowheads in this ash-colored dust.

From the lake, you hear cricket squalls in long reeds,
the lap of water against horses sunk belly deep,
drowsing in the lake. Knobs of frog eyes
follow you from the surface
until the sound of your legs through tar weed
chases away the groaning frogs,

and you find a place for yourself
at the edge of my lake. Wait there

for a blue gill to bite the smooth skin
of the water. Rings of silent echoes widen,
and if you swim out farther, there will be
other such kisses, especially if it's dusk,
when ancestors waken. There always were for me.

TRYST

This is one of those rooms for potted plants.
Lots of windows crisscrossed into lots of panes
section the sunlight into diamonds over carpet,
quilted bedspread, and all these creeping Charlies.

Lying here all afternoon, I don't feel like talking
out loud. The slow breaths of sunlight in and out
through the clouds have unfocused my eyes. I think
people must be most beautiful when they are eating

or lying still, even turned away as you are now.
The radiator ticks away under the window,
and the waves of its heat are visible
silhouetted by sunlight on my lap. Our shadows

won't grow tall until tonight, when dinner candles are lit.
Right now there is nothing we have to live up to.

See my article, called "Life Lessons: The Other Things You Learn in Acting Class," on the Callboard home page
It's under the "Past Issues" heading.

Contact me at carolar@informix.com

Page composed by Diane Kirsten-Martin