En Caul

The myth of you eddies
at your arrival.
If it’s true
you could never drown
no matter the riptide
swirl of ocean or river.
No nagging fear
of the lake’s silent summer edge.

But it’s winter
when you’re born.
A polar vortex hovers
over the state and stays.
The door knobs inside
fuzz over with ice. The sky
clear and too cold
to draw water to itself.

In another myth, a philter
consists of viper’s tongue
dust of dove heart
an infant’s cloak at birth.
Add heat and drink
for instant attraction.

You see, I did drink the potion,
believed everything about struggle
and glory, perseverance
producing character.
That friction is heat, is a way
of rising. It was foolish. I could see
the deluge coming.
I knew I would love you.