River

For all its rushing, the river can’t listen.
And if I’m being honest, this river
is really a creek, only so high and fast
from the rain. It came halfway up
the backyard, stranding the swingset.
I am tired of the sound of my voice,
tired of waiting for a sign. It doesn’t matter
if this river, this big-boned creek,
hears me. I have lived with it all my life.
It’s touched me since I was a child.
It’s tongued my ankles and knees,
and knows them by touch and taste.
But what kind of memory
can a body have, a body of water,
when what flows by is always new?
The shipwreck at the bottom
of the backyard hill has a slide
and monkey bars where birds perch
above the flood. It doesn’t matter
if this river is listening. It’s not
from around here, and it’s not staying.