The only thought, water.
Rising tides, the boats lifted. Water, water, everywhere.
The lips crack as if kissed too much, as if leaving the mouth, dry.
Early leafing, early blooming. How will the bees know the when of their lives?
Weakness, in the knees, of the flesh, in the moment.
Heat is a game. You’re getting warmer. You’re burning up.
The body reshaped too easily, the back of the hand unable to feel its form.
Loss of ice and snow, the world uncapped by thaw.
Inability to eliminate waste when there’s something soluble left to give.
Swimming acidity by the tons, oceans move toward neutral.
The heart races. The blood’s sluggish.
Wind means fire. Rain means flood. The weather becomes wild.
Loss of salt, in the wound, worth one’s. Everything depends upon the pinch, a grain.
More frequent and violent extremes. Abrupt, from the Latin to break away. Or steep.
Slowing, confusion, the world spinning.
Fever, the world over. Earth in stupor.
Sleep. Or extreme dozing off, or sleep that cannot reverse itself.
This poem first appeared in SWWIM.
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Anna Leahy’s books include the poetry collection If in Some Cataclysm, What Happened Was:, and Constituents of Matter and the nonfiction book Tumor. Her essays have won top awards from Mississippi Review, Los Angeles Review, Ninth Letter, and Dogwood. She has been a fellow at MacDowell and the American Library in Paris. More at amleahy.com.
