The body is a river of grief, and at its mouth—a mother who feeds it pain,
you learn quickly that speaking about the wounds is pointless,
it wasn’t intentional. You become water. You ebb & flow.
You become a confluence; you divert the sorrow to the right
and hope happiness pools in the left.
Surrendering to the current is certain death—drowning takes on many forms,
becoming creatures of habits | patient for all the wrong things
tending to fires | deburring your tongue | withdrawal from light.
The foam-line becomes a boundary you do not cross,
you think of April’s burgeoning sunlight as a floatation device,
you move accordingly—you wade towards the riverbanks repeating
‘all I have to do, is make it through the night’ . Whether it takes the
the shape of a lie or a mantra, you don’t know yet. The cold numbing
of water sets in, it does not trigger your gasp reflex.
You take another step, and another, and another—
you wonder if you bleed your grief here,
would the river ever be the same?
Would you?
