They say she never lets go of the dead,
she holds them as close as a poet
holds words, or a child holds a doll.
The S'klallam never canoed across,
they said icy fingers would pull you under,
hold you in the bottomless depth.
 

July 6, 1940, the lake's grip unlocks
a woman floats to the surface,
the lake as smooth as a mirror,
white-barked alders lean over,
as Hallie floats by, a rope around her ankle,
her body turned to soap.

What else is still hidden beneath
this shiny mirror, where forth pound
Beardsley trout float weightlessly by?

I dive in from the edge, ignoring
the S'klallam's warnings.
July 6, 1996, I float on my back,
the alders watch me from above,
a cloudless sky as clear as the lake,
the icy water like cold hands
hold me suspended
with my back to all
her secrets.