they whisper to me, you know, they tell me when something disgusting bathes in them. the lakes wish you’d drown, the rivers rush past, the sea wants you dead. the oceans between us spit salt at your name, false moon, false tide puller.
they whisper to me, you know. they tell me no water can wash what you’re cleaning. they tell me no water can coax change from you. they tell me the blood is thicker, the father prevails, the mother conceives. they tell me the poisoned mind is hollow, in like to a well with no end, a thirst that will know no quenching.
they whisper to me, you know. they tell me his name. they spill and pool at my feet, they sing his name like birdsong, as he once sung yours. they miss him, valiant, true blue. you are treading fine water, graceless girl, tolerated only by the recollection of sweet sayings and the rippling of his name across seas.
The water remembers. The water knows. There are no gleaming shores for you to rest on, no depths you can sink to. there is an echo, a cry, a curse, a plague. there is a natural desire to spit out that which is disgusting.
ALT PARAGRAPH:
for someone wishing the water will change them, knowing blood is thicker will rot them; branch to root, nerve to womb. fathers daughter, mother's ache. be awash, the lakes wish you'd drown.