21

river water

 

today you are simultaneously
condensing and freezing into tiny hexagons

three plaid men stop traffic
their flashing truck-bed sign guides us past your
embarrassment

you have overflowed    transgressed boundaries
I sigh    push radio-buttons    now
your are my inconvenience

one man lifts a muddy shovel and I see a flooded riverbank
he waves    I pass disgrace like an open grave

I am not the child that chased you back downhill
barefoot    climbing trees laid to rest when you withdrew

I’m not that child    I keep you in a plastic bottle
I can’t remember the catfish stink that was part of my skin
like sweat    like salt    I’m not the child who swam
opening my eyes to see    light

streaming down like the spines in a bluegill’s fin

 

 

poem2day — april 2010

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