The Years of Water & Light

Ruth Awad

In the rowboat I tied her shoes.

And the river cussed and spat.

Our feet swelled and our bellies begged.

The end is never how you expect.

This is where I lose her:

at the shoreline, in sweet water.

We fed wild dogs overripe apples and herring.

My hands shine with hunger.

Her hair hung in willow boughs, mine in wild onion.

I reel the small fish of time.

The end never happens and always happens.

In winter we suet the trees. The cardinals arrive like snow.

I braid her willow hair. I tie her shoes once more.

It is winter again. The birches like crooked combs.

Why are you crying?        Why are you crying?

Begin but start with the end:

in spring she is pregnant. In summer she is not.

The baby swims in every room.

See where our steps wet the hallway?

That was when we were swept away.