Watermark

Catherine Moore

Featured image: Weight wings © A. Anupama 2017


–after Brodski

The
                      merge into one flow
                                            requires no holding back,
                                 this is a river’s fluency
                      always choosing— adherence,
anarchy.
                      In dark folds on its surface,
                                            separating under and above,
                                 a liminal that ripples warning
                      or readies itself for the making
of
                      high-water markings.
                                            Within more gentle eddies
                                 some confuse calm and serenity, love and pity,
                      marooned stirrings that cast no shadow.
Water
                      is only bound to reflect time,
                                            climates that cloud across its plane,
                                 the faces of children contemplating
                      a river’s conveniences: how its current
spurns
                      boundaries, how it gifts
                                            great height in its scaffolded bridges,
                                 both a thresh-way between
                      existence and essence. In running,
the
                      river leaves its own inscriptions
                                            like the lace biographies a wave
                                 leaves on sandy shores.
                      It carves a scar into the earthly
notion
                      of loyalty and kin,
                                            and endears false tithings
                                 to unsolid ground. A few souls know wading
                      through nights that toss cruelly,
of
                      days X’ed aside, they braid an expanse
                                            in everyday hazards survived,
                                 make barge of the chaos left behind.
                      If the wounded float, they sing, and shift in
shape.