The Curvature: Escape

Here, the river, my river, argues.

It speaks with whispered nouns

That name the parts of the word

I have come here once again to hear.

I say parts since the water cannot adhere,

As if having lost the battle to live.

(The old coliseums were flooded

And filled with elephants and lions

Who couldn’t drown but drowned

Even the gladiators who could swim.)

The waters are silent as ice tonight.

They are coming for me, getting close,

With their pikes and slung machetes,

And I’ve no place to hide — I dive,

Feel my ears fill, my lungs burst,

And, like all escapees, swim upstream.

They stand on the trestle looking down

And do not see a ripple in darkness

I swim deeply enough not to disturb.

When I’m alone again slipping I climb

A clay shoulder at the river bend.

I cannot rest, nor stray from the shore.

I marvel at the constant curvature

Of muddy banks. Nothing is straight.

I stop again and wait, a stone, hearing

Faint assurances I am here, now,

Just this once, and that’s enough for me.