Everyone is buying stones
           and painting walls and wearing 

those adult eyes to finger fabric samples,
           while sampling courthouses and signing

the paperwork—and why not, they say
           we bloom in April. Yesterday, you asked 

if we should dive in, just like you
           asked in the lake water last summer, when we 

ripped off our shirts and blessed the fish
           and blessed the rich soil squishing between

our toes. It was under a half moon—we drifted 
           untethered to loon calls and the soft whish of fly

rods, how we patchwork now-ness with its front doors,
           back exits and all its windows yawning to the ever— 

changing elements, and yet a buckeye in my pit
           is sprouting ardent oaths and baby sounds

and home ownership, like a shrine—branching upward
           to my bottleneck & bucket mouth. What if?

Would we be free like the fish—filled to the gills
           with forgiveness? And when the rains fall,

cold and expectant, could we leap out
           of the still, thrashing and splashing

our marbled flanks, to testify nothing
           has changed? That zest for life remains

unfettered. It’s funny how I fought our rightness,
           how two slippery skins commit,

all it takes is a leap of faith followed
           by a solid morsel of grit—bless the fish.

Maud Welch holds a BA in English Literature from Bates College and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Spalding University. She resides in her hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Rust + Moth and New Ohio Review.