Etymology by Caroline Kessler
I’m reconsidering the word dangerous. It used to mean walking
through raging traffic as a rainstorm blinded me, or hiking
down to Big Sur River, my life on my back, scrambling
along rocks without footholds until I reached
the swift water whose only crossing is a cold barefoot one. Now
I’m not so sure. I’ve been spending
more time in water—a friend’s hot tub,
green-edged city swimming pools, the bay,
natural hot springs—and always naked, all pointed nipples
and doughy hips. Copenhagen, diving into the Øresund, we all tried
to avoid the burning jellyfish. Everyone looked so gorgeous, bobbing
in the glossy sound. Their shoulders as buoys, eyes rimmed red.
I didn’t want to leave. Another thing: if you were here, sprawled
out on the amber hardwood, you could put your head on my stomach:
your ear a seashell, your hair curled like brown punctuation
on my shirt. Your brain humming in your skull. The unstrained
quiet. The heavy there-ness of you. The dull thumping
of your heart, predicting the future, the next beat coming
exactly when I think it will.
Caroline Kessler is a writer, editor, and facilitator living in south Berkeley. Her poetry and prose have been published in The Susquehanna Review, Sundog Lit, sparkle&blink, Superstition Review, Anderbo, and elsewhere. Stalk her online at carokess.com.
I’m reconsidering the word dangerous. It used to mean walking
through raging traffic as a rainstorm blinded me, or hiking
down to Big Sur River, my life on my back, scrambling
along rocks without footholds until I reached
the swift water whose only crossing is a cold barefoot one. Now
I’m not so sure. I’ve been spending
more time in water—a friend’s hot tub,
green-edged city swimming pools, the bay,
natural hot springs—and always naked, all pointed nipples
and doughy hips. Copenhagen, diving into the Øresund, we all tried
to avoid the burning jellyfish. Everyone looked so gorgeous, bobbing
in the glossy sound. Their shoulders as buoys, eyes rimmed red.
I didn’t want to leave. Another thing: if you were here, sprawled
out on the amber hardwood, you could put your head on my stomach:
your ear a seashell, your hair curled like brown punctuation
on my shirt. Your brain humming in your skull. The unstrained
quiet. The heavy there-ness of you. The dull thumping
of your heart, predicting the future, the next beat coming
exactly when I think it will.
Caroline Kessler is a writer, editor, and facilitator living in south Berkeley. Her poetry and prose have been published in The Susquehanna Review, Sundog Lit, sparkle&blink, Superstition Review, Anderbo, and elsewhere. Stalk her online at carokess.com.
