My father tells me how they

suffocated the lake

by dumping autumn’s aborted leaves

from blue tarps bright as the sky.

Took them at least a decade

of raking the raw red bodies,

scythe-like, of white oaks,

the yellow aspen bells,

to see progress peeking its

blighted crown from the dark

kettle waters. How the rotten polish

glistened with sog & murk.

How you could see the thin memories

hanging onto each other like

puzzle pieces, even in death.

How there was no forgetting

the staunch wall of disgust

& masking of noses. At first,

on the boat, then on shore,

finally the cul-de-sac.

My father tells me never to go that far,

stay away like how you keep so quiet.

How he shouldn’t have harbored

his silence deep in his belly.

Migraines stay with me the way

killing millions ended up killing one body.

At the time, he says,

what issue could have surfaced–

not even the trees

would keep their children.