The Years of Water & Light
By Ruth Awad
In the rowboat I tied her shoes.
And the river cussed and spat.
Our feet swelled and our bellies begged.
The end is never how you expect.
This is where I lose her:
at the shoreline, in sweet water.
We fed wild dogs overripe apples and herring.
My hands shine with hunger.
Her hair hung in willow boughs, mine in wild onion.
I reel the small fish of time.
The end never happens and always happens.
In winter we suet the trees. The cardinals arrive like snow.
I braid her willow hair. I tie her shoes once more.
It is winter again. The birches like crooked combs.
Why are you crying? Why are you crying?
Begin but start with the end:
in spring she is pregnant. In summer she is not.
The baby swims in every room.
See where our steps wet the hallway?
That was when we were swept away.
