The Mystic Spoke of Water

And I dream this night of rivers. Deep, mud-flooded rivers, carrying me on my satin bed. Rivers separate me from the land to flow through the center of it all. This river is dark. Fast currents. I cannot navigate nightfall. I cannot fight the river’s will. The river in me flows with the river without me.  Water calls to water. We meet our own element. Somewhere it will drain and I will be left dry, soft-boned, with salt-cracked organs. I am a pillar of salt, only and barely spittle. My progeny, my land, my history: gone We tongue the mud from the riverbed. Make new.

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