You ever think about how many bodies this ol’ river’s swallowed?
Mistaking the moonlight for two frozen plums, now just bones,
knitting the banks like stubborn roots, tucking them under,
with the current’s tongue, licking its teeth.
Some slip in easy—drunks, or lovers who lose the bet,
others, are fed piece by piece, pocket-watch, wedding band,
last gasp, riding the froth like an unread letter—wrapped,
in her good blue dress.
But the water don’t weep, it keeps on churning,
between the rocks, their names washed smooth,
every dawn, the river yawns and spits back the shine,
calling it, hunger, calling it, mine.
