Cancer

Reagan Riffle

Every time I go to the water and I sit down, looking over my boots and my long socks, my pale shins and my brown freckles, I feel like pebbles are poems and waves are promises. And every branch that peers over the current is a fallen soldier, shaping, wishing, guiding the stream for her younger sisters.

But the fisherman is a turbine motor oil cheater, floating above the water instead of through. Smelling rotten like bus seats where mamas sat after the double shift, feet longing to stop walking, mind longing to stop longing. Sweet quiet charcoal night, bring her peace.

When I come to the water, I think about mothers and sisters and daughters. Sisters that left red knuckle anger and cacophonous laughter, secret languages and dragon stories in the white rug of their childhood. I wonder if they still dream to tell these stories. I almost hear them in the River. I wonder if she kissed too many lips, hoping they were promises, only to watch them wash, wash, wash away forward.

It never feels like the boat man will come back until he does. And it only sounds like revolution when we’re whispering. And every time I wonder where I have left to go, the water reminds me who I’ve been.