for CW, whose anonymity I will preserve
When's the last time you ever tried
to deconstruct a river?
Are they respected where you come from
as animals and heirlooms?
Were you the child of your family
who hid alone in the guest room
working at American atlases
marking water courses and tributaries,
rushing to find the right paths and places?
Were you colliding with honesty
to protect us from riptides and lunar wander
by rote, by fingertip tracery,
by closed eyes and whitewash crush?
Well, from my bloody fingertips in the Mississippi
to my patient palms drawing baths
whenever I feel like the water comes from somewhere else
I think of the child thankfully.
And I think of you.
No matter whether or not you were there.
December, 2013