I rose with the sun
and stumbled down
to the river’s mouth in the morning.
To the place where her lips lap
at the muddy bank beneath my feet.
Driftwood and dirty bottles washed ashore,
remnants of once strong arms,
once insatiable thirst.

Desire is a fickle thing
when not sustained at the root.
The unknown wound always thirsty.
Begging the banks of the known to hold it,
but not too tightly.

Begging to be met with just enough, never too much.
Begging to be fully known,
yet afraid of fully knowing.

I dig my toes into the river’s soil,
feeling my womb, thighs, soles held.
Releasing and surrendering back into the earth
my knowing.

The sun catches a ripple in the river
and I direct my eyes there.
The opening.