Cold Tahoe Today
       

When we go to the lake, I will see its colors,
moss green, lavender, sapphire,
the water I swam in at 8, 10, 12,
14. I would spend most of the day
underwater—then a forced rest
in the sun until my lips weren't indigo,
then under. I was an agate hunter,
a diver for transparent stone.
It meant so much to me to be
entirely inside that liquid world—
if my mother looked out from the rental, she would see
Tahoe. Today it will be too cold.
But I want to go in, and open my eyes,
and see the reaches of golden green,
and blackish purple—in solitude,
wearing the whole glacial cloak,
looking up, from inside, and seeing
the tray of mercury, the ceiling
to rise through,
the life to resume.
I do not know if I'm more afraid that I'll go
in, or that I won't go in.
I think it was like a sacred place.
No one could hit you, there, no one could
pull their arm back fast enough
to strike. It was slow, there, there were
no humans there. And that last summer,
up on the land, they were still looking
for my classmate's body, she was buried, still.
I'd descend below the surface, and go
to the silence, to the unknown, life was
not what they said, and it was not what you thought it was.

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Copyright © 2019 Sharon Olds All rights reserved
from Gulf Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission