And the Wound Says

Step into the river and let the ripples cool us.
The spawned-out salmon, a few days
discreetly dead, are a so-so meal
for the gulls. Look away.

I've ridden you,     and you me,
as far as we can ride.     Recall
our old     darts and dashes
between black trees—     because
you believed     watercress
bloomed up     through the algea.

Don't cling. Don't try to resist.
Thorn in the quick     of being,     I am
what I am. Object     of non-desire.
Nothing more pure.

Did you expect the throb
to throw a less delirious fit of welcome?

Kneel. Even as the cold rushes forth
above our heat, so our heat
grinds on below.

Copyright © 2005 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission