Saturday, March 27, 2010

At the river

Where the river curves low
and slick as a black snake’s back,
holding tight treasured minerals
in its cold, greedy grasp, just there
I imagine I can see the sun
glint for a fraction of a moment
off your amphibious sleek body,
a spy’s body, slipped in here
between the beginning and an old,
forgotten end, my friend

Where the river rumbles low
with the guttural throat
of an angry storm, there,
just there I remember how you
were clasped, held fast
by the icy, greedy fingers
of the mirror-black water,
your hair woven green as if
with ceremonial reeds, while the fish
danced their solemn, scaled dreams
in slow circles down your cheek
down your beloved, your still, soft cheek

Rachel Westfall
March 27, 2010


Elisabeth said...

I love the expression 'the guttural throat of an angry storm'. This poem works very well for me. I find it wonderfully accessible, layered and resonant. Thanks.

BloggerMouth said...

Oh gosh is this what I think it is about? This poem is so painfully, darkly beautiful =( God bless.

christopher said...

I am just so pleased you are back. It is completely effortless to dance with you. As you can see, I am adept at escape. I have resumed the search.

Also, this is the first poem in several days for me...this is like the slaking of my thirst.

Thank you.

Just In Time

It is so strangely
tangled, this life. I leap from
body to body
before the moment,
rising from the waters to
glide in the sun glint
air, riding the gale,
seeking your lithe running form,
your dappled gray lines.

RachelW said...

Elisabeth, Bloggermouth, thank you both for your kind words. :)

Christopher, I think we are becoming codependent. hehe

joaquin carvel said...

wow. powerfully good - dark, fluid, and slippery - your language fits the subject perfectly.

Annie said...

I love this poem, for its rhythm and imagery, and its total effect.