crafted on the shores of the lake, woven with movement

A skin  between salt
 and sky.      Pastels. That shimmering,
terminal ache. Waves pocked
with crystal have met shapes other-
worldly, of the earth. Of sky. Of
poison veining my underbelly.
I am pregnant              with small
bodies: millions of tendriling legs,
faceted eyes, crisp shining
wings. I give       rise
to birds who descend when they
see my glint—familiar glint of
every-year, of water in the desert—
salvation in the fat black eyes
of shrimp, in my buzzing
droves of flies: piles of jewels.
I am a trove of scents. Of mucky
plug-your-nose-today scents the
kids around here are fleshed from.
I am a trove of stretched here,
shrunk there. Corsets and
tourniquets grasp at my sprawling
edges, press     me in.
Snow layers the hills white; heavy
metals darken my salts. How much
can a body hold? I call out
sky       every evening, a few dip paddles
into it. What can a body     be?
I have seen hunters come and
go,   felt feathered bodies go
limp against me and ascend into
sustaining another life. Dripping my
body back to me          as they are carried
away. I have felt figures seeking
healing on my shores, dancing against
my cold canvas, lighting my
crests with glimmering firelight. I’ve heard
the music, drum to big band to
rap to spiders weaving
gleams. I have               seen
buildings come and go. There is
poison veining my under-
belly. I am pregnant with a million bodies;
they are traced with the thin black
line of terminal                       ache. We are all
crowned in the drying, shining
salts. We turn and turn, and we                     
will                  not                  
stop.

sarah ann woodbury was raised by a flock of shimmering beings including Great Salt Lake. As part of a lifelong work learning to move with the more-than-human, her projects weaving poetry, performance, ritual, and song collaborate with and respond to the body and voices of the lake.