I.
At dawn I receive
the blessing of Mendota,
lake water on my forehead, while
next to me a squirrel bends
his head to drink.
II.
Hours later I walk by
the same waters as men pull
a missing diver from their depths.
I pull my mom further from the ambulance, away
from the memory of the last time we were together, when I stood at the edge
of her hospital bed.
Alive when they find him,
he dies at the hospital,
within hours.
III.
At evening, I return
for the benediction, the wet breath
of waves
crashing into bluffs, relentless
into immutable.
IV.
Morning.
I leave the house before they rise, closing
the door softly, hoping
they sleep, unfeeling.
Their sadness is impossible to bear.
Worms litter the street like
day-old confetti, sodden.
I carry my grief to Mendota.
The wind-sharpened rain
dives headlong down.
The lake absorbs everything
into her great, soft body,
restless only at the surface,
tossing just her edges
to the rocks.
—
Poet Krissy Kludt is the Executive Director of Writing the Wild. Her work appears in Taking Liberties (Cutthroat 2025), Humana Obscura, and Stories from the Trail (Wayfarer Books 2024). Her debut poetry collection is forthcoming from Green Writers Press in Spring 2026. She lives in the Driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin. www.krissykludt.com
