Catherine Moore
Featured image: Weight wings © A. Anupama 2017
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.