Riverdirge
I don’t want to hold anymore —
the children that pull up that grass, the babies that swallow
that moss, the men
who drink up that river, the women who caress me
and wish to swallow me whole,
if quietly. I want to find it
somewhere that is not here —
my body, this earth,
some extraterrestrial hill
where I can be quiet alone and think about it, all
something else. Mud cradled in the fingernails
of a creature with love in its throat; antenna between
front teeth; ocean gravel stuck
to the palm that slaps
me from behind. I am sick
of dragging, of everything running through me
when I am the mother of the world. From river hillside
I am something
covered in skin, sure, covered in
shore, in wet, crashing, growth, melting, cascade, crest,
breast and valley. Mother,
would you make me in your image? a planet that holds so much
in itself.
Frances Sharples is an English literature major in their last year at Geneseo. Frances is the Editor-in-Chief of The Lamron and Iris Magazine. They write a lot and talk even more. They also read poems and listen to music and love all of their friends.