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
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.