At night I swim through a dream of grief:
River running thickly across my throat,
wrists pinned by slick currents to the pebbled bed.
Porous flesh or sedimentary skin
where the water seeps into my body
and weighs me down to sleep.
I wake, an Antaean spring.
I hold the borders of my body closed,
where no rogue touch or word of love
or wretched wave of want can steal in to hold me.
I move, scaleless, through the sunken-earth day.
No river calls me home.