Nymphs never looked like this
hair pulled back, gaze focused,
forgetting your own face. Pulling.
But who else has learned this river
as you have? The grey pearl
in the early Sunday light,
the glisten of mud, that place
where the current helps you,
presses you forward, like your father,
pushing you on your first bike,
hand in the small of your back.
The heron, maybe, further up,
where the tide doesn’t reach,
and the weir foams and froths,
and the otter, I’m sure, slick furred
dancing in the water.
you have the river in your blood now.
You glance to check the tide in passing,
and you bring the smell of it, faint scent
of mud and river water, home with you.
So even though you prefer
yourself primped, preening, I like
this image of you, water on water,
separated by the thin skin of the scull,
of the girl. Water calling to water.
This is for Paul at dVerse. He’s making a guest appearance behind the bar, and he’s looking for rivers.