May I show you a river:
cold quick current wild
splash!(es) over jumbled slabs
(Span of bridge long dead victim)
Everything is shifting changing
Swiftly fragmentary; crippling fearfully
Bleak white raw water. As
tug my sleeve, show
me the woman struggling from stone to
stone. Water shoves against her thighs.
Know that her fingers bleed
bruised and broken nailed. Tangled
hair she pushes from her eyes.
As I turn away. For
She shows herself as me. Yes
oh yessss. sheI. me her. weone.
The sleepy surprise to be
seen in your eyes - Do you
yet comprehend the name
of the river we observe?
Of course. It's
A nearly 30-year old poem, published in a college arts and letters quarterly, one in which I appear three times, once as a poet and twice in art, since I worked my way through college as a life-drawing model.
Just got back from seeing my old college boyfriend at the airport, the guy I wrote the poem for, him and wife and nearly grown kids. I brought some of the drawings he did for me. He doesn't draw anymore. And he kept them, which I hadn't really meant for him to do, but really, to whom do these things belong? The people we were we aren't any more.
This has been a strange week.