Beneath the Surface

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I was a fisher's wife

and I know fish stories better than anyone,

better perhaps than He who scattered them,

for I have recited them as

verbs to a language:

Diving until my belly

runs through the weeds,

slides across mud,

taut with a slow exhalation, then easy pump,

and a searching with the hands.

As my lungs grow thick,

I rise to the light,

a bubble to the mass,

one wave of the arms and

I'm gone:

     Here behind you!

     Across the pond!

I view the rain in a mirrored hand

beneath the clear black surface,

where each drop forms a perfect arc

and the world becomes

an open mouth.