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Camp Lullaby

Cinder-block to the bottom.

The rope unravels portside.

Even young ones plunge deep,

but they die differently.

Scared kids make undoubtable sounds.

and I inhale the melodious harmony in their fear.

Each sings a lullaby.

The kind read to them each night in bed.

Maybe it comforts them

because soon they’ll fall asleep,

but every child does it the same way.

They recite a few words just as I push them over,

And their lungs swallow the lake.

At first, they kick and thrash.

They even grab at the skiff’s edge.

Water wings are a day late for these angels.

I pull at their fingers until they break or let go.

Cries send ripples across glass,

but nothing is ever heard this vast.

Thirty-Six Acres private and pristine.

The concrete anchor tugs hard at their feet.

Down the drain, they go.

Their screams drown with them.

Muffled becomes quiet,

but not for a silent night,

as I can hear them singing their bedtime stories of silt.

A perpetual rhyme that is soothing,

I let it play on repeat until I too fall asleep.

All my little children

live at the bottom of Tremont Lake.

What was once a summer camp of excitement,

is now a promise fulfilled,

but one they cannot escape.