Of course, I told the women,

the river was changeless and could not be wounded
with thieving or fire. I know this feels
like a long time ago, but such moments
of mar and motion— One woman
held her hand out to me as if to plant me
in the straw of her belly, but then she spat.
And the birds in the green of their perch
and their feathers remained
flightless, the night lingering as simply
as any night. I knew then the river
could carry our cedar wood, even without water.
I'm telling you, I have always walked
here. And the river, it always wraps around.

Copyright © 2009 Stacy Kidd All rights reserved
from Fugue
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission