down in the water of the old gods,
i am learning to speak the language of destruction.
it is late in the day, my love.
it is late in the day and my love has
gone down in the water.
dark as an uncle’s love.
dark as fishscales in dark water.
it is late in the day
and the laurel floats
together with indian pipe–
skimming the surface of our eyes.
it is late in the day and
my love is building
a new world from
mud and twisted baby blankets,
gathered from rooms without doors.
it is late in the day and
today, the cemetery is
a row of houses in a familiar place
with mouths wide open.
down in the water of the old gods
i am learning to speak the language of fish.
i am learning to say the names
of those still missing.
down in the water,
what was lost will not all be reborn–
but will still walk on our feet and work with our hands.
it is late in the day but the words,
my love,
the words rise like foam to the surface of the river
as we are clearing,
a path to our lost futures.
—
Michael Rainwater is a poet, carpenter, and long distance backpacker. His work has appeared in Common Threads and the anthology I Thought I Heard A Cardinal Sing: Ohio’s Appalachian Voices. He spends most of his time in the mountains of western North Carolina.
