There Was a River We Couldn’t Cross
For a while, it was
very dark. I tied a ribbon
to your wrist and we wandered together
through the blackness
until you turned your belly into a lantern
and we glowed from the inside out.
At moments, we were underwater.
Otherwise, I was driving the both of us
down a winding road at midnight
while a white doe trailed the car.
There was a river we couldn’t cross
where an old man lowered constellations with a net
into the water. He wouldn’t look at us.
He knew that we were stumbling,
half-blind, trying to make meaning
of something we would forget before morning.
At dawn when I told you where we were —
covered in ash, wading through
a river thick with the shadows of fish
moving too fast but all vaguely familiar,
you touched my hand and laughed.
I was damp from the waist down.
You had hardly slept.