Poem Thirteen: Heathen

*

Swirl of the river’s silk,

breath without a name.

River, take me in.

Carp fins fan over river rocks.

The river shifts course.

Lakes, tributaries—

your fingertips in water.

Come to me,

black rocks speak

over the pull of tides.

One last swirl, you said.

The water takes your ankles,

your heart

beats.

You slip under.

The water dreams you.

*