Stranger Muse

She swam in the midnight lake

alone

parting water with her hands

to glide through its silent depths.

I watched for the glint of moonlight on skin,

the sheen of water-slicked hair

breaking the surface

like a seal

She laughed at me

shivering barefoot on the dew-damp grass

clutching her clothes

begging her to

come out before the sun.

She said they called her Venus

but never said who they were

or if I should do the same.

She had the ocean eyes

song-writers write

and thighs of thick flesh

twisted like braided breads

risen with reps in a gym

that smelled always of strangers’ feet.

She was good with strangers.

At the bar she threw back a beer

and nearly chipped a tooth on the drowned shot glass

laughing at the way it hurt.

I asked if she was okay

“Never,” she shouted above music I didn’t like

blasting louder than I liked.

I laughed, too.

She gestured for me to follow

outside, I thought to talk

but then further to the lake,

and I did, but didn’t swim.

Once, inexplicably, she sank.

It was no less surprising than if gravity had suddenly lost its hold

and released her toward a starless sky.