Walking as a wet soul through a dry world
on legs meant for slicing waves
she wanders from pool to stream
never knowing why the water draws her
or why her skin cracks around her
or where she left that thing she lost
or what she’s even looking for…
No pond is deep enough
no river’s current can wash away the restlessness
that clings to her like sand,
and though she tries to do dry things
like treading sidewalks and breathing air
nothing feels made for her, nor she for it,
but
If she knew where to look
or could remember what she lost
she would scorn puddles and run from solid ground
and plunge
swim away far beyond the kneeling shore —
Because what she needs
what her elementary memory won’t forget
is salt and silt and raging undertow
and wobbly sunlight that reaches only just so far
as she rockets downward, chasing little fish.
