river water
today you are simultaneously
condensing and freezing into tiny hexagons
three plaid men stop traffic
their flashing truck-bed sign guides us past your
embarrassment
you have overflowed / transgressed boundaries
I sigh / push radio-buttons / now
your are my inconvenience
one man lifts a muddy shovel and I see a flooded riverbank
he waves / I pass disgrace like an open grave
I am not the child that chased you back downhill
barefoot / climbing trees laid to rest when you withdrew
I’m not that child / I keep you in a plastic bottle
I can’t remember the catfish stink that was part of my skin
like sweat / like salt / I’m not the child who swam
opening my eyes to see / light
streaming down like the spines in a bluegill’s fin
ANGIE WERREN writes poetry in a tiny house in Ohio. Her words are in some lovely places, most recently, Contemporary American Voices (http://contemporaryamericanvoices.wordpress.com) and Thirteen Myna Birds (http://13myna.blogspot.com). You can read more of her morpheme manipulations on smoke (http://another2doors.wordpress.com).
