Shelby Newsom
On Wilderness

Spent under the pines,
we lie in the shell of our tent,
first time without the rain fly.
Sleeping bags unzipped, our skin
in the sun’s mouth.

We’ve draped a towel overhead
to stave off day an hour longer.
Having hiked the summit
early with a camera,
fog trails us back to sleep.

We don’t sleep.
Sun spills us naked and we fold together
almost without meaning to—
the whisper of nylon
almost a prayer.

We move as all bodies move,
compelled to draw water
from the lake. Compelled to drink
from the basin.
Here in the wilderness,
will we ever scrape

bottom? Every animal knows thirst.
Once more, I’ve fallen
into your stream. All around us, water.
The hymn of ladle to lips.

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