- By Amar Deshpande (he/him)
- Art “Mead Bubbles” by Aoife Arras (she/her)
The river that runs through me
speaks my language. Isn’t that funny?
Not in mumbles or murmurs or babbles or roars
but in my language! Or is it the language that someone made mine?
It tells me what it’s like to dream. Water insistent
rising up, falling through.
I feel like I am already dreaming.
A trick of the light, this moment’s
dance.
A mumbling tongue gathers bones along the river
bank
in the form of laughter thick.
The river does not laugh in return,
instead it continues to speak.
I continue to listen. When will I finally learn
its language as well?
wild
and
precious
through your
eyes
i could live if you
asked me to.
who made this hummingbird
that fights with itself
to feed? i want to shed
my teeth before my skin
i want to live with love
in my hands.
the trees are my sisters, the lettuce stalk
bled milky white when i cut it
maybe i should just lay down
beside it and bleed
as well.
