Surfeit
By Katie Tunning


A flat stone takes flight over the lake,
refuses once, twice, to believe
in water, then believes.

You say abundance isn't always everything
you need. Sometimes it's needing just one thing
and slipping it on like a cold glove,
one finger at a time.

You say waking is chance enough,
on good days.
On other days it's more—

the length of your throat holds
what you don't say. Elides it.
The last syllable
of the drowned.

Your rock skips,
misses,
drops:
a long vowel
in the water's reedy mouth.

I'm right beside you, watching you
watch stone after stone
fly out over the water
as if your own hand had no hand in it.

Katie Tunning grew up in Ohio, graduated from Swarthmore College, and now lives nowhere in particular, which she finds is a fine place for poetry.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com