Grief at Lake Travis
by E. Kristin Anderson
I have seen how one builds a lake
from a river, stacking rocks to hold
the water, flood a basin. It is terrifying
that this is how you feign the ocean,
where you take me to get sunburned
and collect freckles like beestings
on my shoulders. On the hill rests
a lighthouse, surrounded by a forest
of luxury homes. I imagine its
infallible sadness, to watch over
a false harbor: no fog, no cliffs,
only canoes and yachts
needing a torch at dusk. The sun sets,
an illustration fit for a picture book,
the waning temperature an afterthought.
