09 April 2006

Many Waters

Oh, the tides. The olive branch I clung to found itself a place to nest. And now the rivers cry over me, inconsolate, every drop burning my starving lungs.

A kind stanger sings to me. She can't save me, she knows. But her voice steadies the rhythm of the waves. She sings like a mynah: of the weedy thorn tearing against my ankle, describing every prick as if it were that fateful day when she, a ten-year-old innocent, fingered her first needle.

The hostile waters holler an encore. The enemy, my loudest cheerleader.

Feet communing with sky, my thorny scar now a Mona Lisa smile. No-one has seen water ballet as strange or artful as mine.

They seem to say, with relish: Many waters cannot quench the fire of love; nor can rivers drown it.