But,
even when quiet,
she reminisces on how it feels
to be stronger than stone.
In between a rock and a hard place,
she erodes both to her will.
The traces left behind are
not those of destruction, but
indelible marks of her truth.
She’ll daydream about
negotiating with the sun
to bring color to the horizon,
Reds and oranges and yellows
greens and blues and purples.
Alone and overlooked, just wait,
when you shine light on her,
when it refracts and disperses
she’ll make you believe in gold
and leprechauns and old magic,
the kind you knew before
the loss of innocence and sight.
When she leaves, inevitably,
stretching forward, beyond, across,
searching for her path of
resistance or acceptance or
honestly space sturdy enough
to contain the life and energy
she carries within her, you
won’t notice the absence.
Humans can survive without
water for approximately a week,
enough time to deny
she meant anything
before anger flashes in the pan
red hot and boiling.
Bargains will be struck
with omnipresent forces.
They’re a dime a dozen,
she’s seen them rise and fall
across texts and sacrifices
and monuments, she’d roll her eyes
if it was worth the energy.
Funny how infrequently they realize
outsourcing was so often the problem.
Weighed down by loss,
an irony not lost on her,
(how can the release of something
feel heavier than carrying it?)
humans will construct
simple reproductions, hide them
in shirt sleeves and tissues,
vices and liquor and pillows.
Eventually, accepting that
Water never sleeps.
She may become still,
occasionally evaporate…
Wandering suits her.
