SCENE: (yet another song headed to the fringes of an aquatic body: puddle, pond, even a lake, this time without many paper boats or lovely things. imagine then, a narcissus figure leaning by the edge; the muddy footprints they tracked in and sparse grass underfoot, shaded as some trees overhead compete for vital light. here there is no wind on the water, a characteristic calm.)
in this memory, i was
neither the wishing-coin
nor the body it was tossed into.
perhaps if the water were clearer
you would remember the mud
below all of its weight; still soft.
here, wish-maker,
drop your coin and let it beat
against my silty heart—
i am trampled and roused
as the water awakens
and reaches its rippling fingers
to meet you at the shore.
wisher, what would it matter
if you had only dipped your hands
to touch that water? hidden within,
the smallest parts of myself that
could reach you unnoticed. even
i could not let you wash yourself
clean of me.
YOU ARE READING
LOCUS AMOENUS
Poetrywhere wanderlust and a well-travelled writer dance to the ever-fickle tune of vicarious words
