Fixed Perspective

The chemical bite of the emulsion

reaches the back of my throat

before the image even clears.

It was stuck behind the drawer runner,

curled and stiff as a dead leaf.

I didn't remember the pier

or the way the lake turned the color of a bad bruise.

But there it is—

the yellow slicker, a loud, synthetic scream

against the gray of the spray.

I look so small in the frame,

holding the wet railing

as if the wood could keep the world

from tilting into the water.