I don’t want to compare myself to a river.

To do so seems insulting.

To the river, I mean.

But I never can tell when the water will

fall,

redden with sediment,

 

Skipping through your curves,

cutting stone with my caress,

hush, hush,

Come, drink,

but swim too far and you may drown.

 

I don’t want to call myself a bitch,

but the word fits snugly, compliments my collarbone

washes me clean of complexity, explains

the way the rapids seem to catch fire at sunset.

 

Ask nature a question.

Trust me, she won’t return your calls.

She’s gone with the riverbend, serenading stalactites in underground caves,

if you put your ear to the ground you might hear her

song.

Hush, she won’t hear you.

Nature needs no heart.