Published Monday, March 25, 2019
There are so many ways for it to happen.
Oceans are rising everywhere and somewhere
a river is finding its way around us
and the moon is about to sink.
As you read this, loss and hurt are very busy
calves too tired and cold to keep swimming
a carpet becoming a sponge, a house becoming a cup
that runneth over. Let us give thanks for bearing
witness, for being alive while discouragement
can still be dragged ashore and resuscitated. Listen.
Can you hear the calls of birds that were here before you
and the labored breathing of other people’s dreams?
I wish to testify that flooding is not a metaphor.
A warm calf swims in the cistern of my heart
splinters of your home are under my skin
and my body can’t escape this undertow
of love for all that is willful and unruly
which is basically everything.
I do not want it to stop—waves of cranes
circling muddy fields and somewhere a dam
about to burst with love or hurt or ice
which, when held back, are not so different.
Meredith Ann Fuller