River

by Maggie Smith

Maggie Smith

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.





Last updated October 30, 2022