---

The Loons of White Fish Lake
by Michael Phillips


 The first time I heard a loon
I thought the lake itself had wailed for the dead.
 
I couldn’t pinpoint the call’s origin
While on water as vast as White Fish Lake.
 
It had simply arisen and grown diffuse,
Broadcast in warning or lament.
 
Maybe the world is haunted,
And ghosts and echoes of the dead linger
 
On the fringes and frayed edges,
Like the bottoms of deep lakes
 
And other places we can’t see,
And find their voice through loons on wide water.

​​

​

---

Michael Phillips has published short stories and poems in several publications, including Roanoke Review, Philadelphia Stories, and Tar River Review. He has an MA in English and work as an editor for a nonprofit healthcare research institute. He lives with his wife and daughter in the Philadelphia suburbs.