Seven Waters

i.

In the morning a mist rolls up the dunes
through which the trees walk

with their arms behind their backs
as if shackled,

as if sucking on pebbles
to quench their thirst.


ii.

In the womb
I sat behind a waterfall.

My fingers all broken
and gill-shaped,

I pursed and unpursed my lips
as if learning to read,

as if listening
carefully for voices.


iii.

The water is torn jeans,
a tattoo beneath clean sheets.

It's your eyes changing colors
as you slip out of one shirt

and into another.


iv.

The water is not water,
it's the patterns of ache over sex,

fire over thought.

It's antechamber and puddled blue dress.
A map of longing and an heirloom

part-birthmark,
part-fishscale.


v.

The waves that reach the furthest
up the sand are all the times

I've said no
when it was easier to say nothing.


vi.

The wind moves through the grass
the way feelings move through a person.

The water shifts from bruise to glass,
from white stone to damp leaf.

Underwater I touch
the backs of my teeth with my tongue

as if I were tucked inside a pale
sour fruit.

A seed, I hope,
and not a stone.


vii.

My thoughts navigate the swells
like bumblebees

and I listen to the waves,
wearing the same face

I make when I bite my tongue,

when I break ice
to drop into my glass

which is already
almost full.