the book in which my mother drives across ohio fields with her sleeping children in the back arrived today. my bound chest, a root & sulfur stain, the sloping leaves of two years winterlight, the cover i designed, in a book that weighs less than my hand. the title is _the lake has no saint_.
response: the lake's saints are woven together in the form of roots & leaves, passages of bodies that have slipped through the water as if through a tunnel of remain-in-light. the lake's saints are the worn sails & the oars made smooth by so many gestures in one direction & then the other. when i swim i am writing with my skin. my eyes are mostly closed. sometimes a small, noble fish with scales the size of my teeth may brush against me. other times, lying on my back, gazing up, floating, as we can, so thankfully, float, i see the saint of the sky. the trembling then composed streams of light, the clouds that sway as both mountains & spirits. she was wrong, the saint dives & emerges, opens her eyes underwater, draws many boats, renders her own body into the shape of a boat.