Nocturne With Lead Paint
RIVER VETTER
It’s against the rules but that’s never stopped us before,
sneaking down to the little beach after dark.
They call this place Paint Shop Pond, because,
even though it’s clean now, it spent sixty years
as the drainage site for the paint factory.
Some nights I still taste the lead.
Tonight: The swans are asleep; so are the people.
Plenty of things are awake:
The rabbit, watching
from under the brambles.
The owl, silent.
You, me,
and the moth that lands on your arm.
We tuck our clothes among the rocks. We walk
the old path down to the water, hands grasp the curl
of the old iron railing. I think
of all who have done this before me.
You always get in the water first. I’m always afraid of the cold.
You don’t look at my body and I won’t look at yours.
Plenty of eyes on us anyway. The owl; the rabbit.
The moths,
but they’re only looking for light.
We step in the water, and I’m not looking at you.
Instead I’m looking
at the colors that spread around,
swirl like I’ve got my own brush.
I’ll paint the moon
to see if the moth will believe it.
It only counts if you go all the way.
You always tell me this.
I hold my breath and submerge.
I want you to look at me.
I want you to look at me. I want
you to look.
RIVER VETTER (they/them) is a queer and trans poet currently working towards their MFA at UMass Boston. Their work has been published by or is forthcoming from Impossible Archetype, Vagabond City, petrichor, June Road Press, and other magazines. Find them on Instagram at @riv.er.v.
