Poem by the River

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I don’t want to write about the river / that can’t smooth stones / nor the bird drawing he gave me / on Valentine’s Day /

I don’t want to write / about the poems I put down / the poems I ran out of words for / the poems I buried / in the river /

I don’t want to write about how my grandma / loved birds and how I / inherited her hobbies as a stone is thrown against clear water / how it skips for a while / then stillness /

I don’t want to write about the Valentine’s Day I looked into the river and it / looked into me /

I don’t want to remember the poem where I drowned / where something settled in my lungs / where I settled / for this life /

No, I don’t want to write about my grandmother or / my family or / this inherited body—the gift I was given some Valentine’s Day / the “gift” I was given as if I were a crayon drawing / as if I am loved like a painting / as if I have not written poems on stones / skipping words like skipping stones / trying to make the edges come out smooth /

No / I don’t want to write about coming out / about my second life / about her as family because it just wasn’t meant to be, okay? She was a painting and I was a stone / a rejected Valentine’s Day love poem / a drowning / a reaching for the bird / on the horizon line / 

No / I do not want to write about these things / so instead I think I might sit here / by the river /

 I will sit and / wait / for the stone / my grandmother said she would use / to beat me to my senses with / to finally hit. /

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Poetry and photography by Hazel J. Hall.
Previously published in boats against the current.