My Grandma Lived on a Lake Like This

My grandma died alone today.

The home forbade visitors and

her children missed

the muted end of 93 years.

My mom trembles with rage

filled guilt, and I cannot find

sufficient words.

So I swim the length of my lake.

I swim past the cemetery where

they buried a baby 200 years ago—

his gravestone little more than a broken tooth.

My grandma is dead and I swim past the

forest where red capped mushrooms

hide poisonous gills.

A few gold veined leaves

litter the floor and winter

no longer feels distant.

But today, the water is my warm skin.

My liver is sick and no one knows why

and I swim quickly over the pockets

of cold water that hide below the surface.

I swim far enough that I no longer

hear my children, only the

tinkling music my hands create

as they push and pull.

My grandma is dead and

I am sick. The lake smells organic

and ancient, the way it smelled

when my grandma persuaded me I

was strong enough to swim

to the other side.

When I return,

my youngest son uses me

as a mattress.

My body accommodates him

in the way known only to mothers.

My grandma died today and my liver

is sick and I don’t know why.

So I huddle under a blanket

of knees and elbows.

And warmed,

my soils settle and the

waters still.

Rachel Mallalieu is an emergency physician and mother of five. She writes poetry in her spare time. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Blood and Thunder, Haunted Waters Press, Ricochet Journal, Pulse, Love's Executive Order, Nelle and Rattle.