SALTWATER RIVER

Samara Cole Doyon

Here, at this point of crashing contact,

caught in the constant dance we make–

colliding, flowing together,

open palm to open palm

(open–as in bleeding),

I implore you to become my blood.

And, wound to wound,

you reflexively drink me in.

Or maybe you ask the question

and I concede.

I can’t remember now

How we end up here,

and in what order we consent

to this ragged blurring.

We share a breath,

entering, altering

one another’s composition.

This is simple biology.

Chemistry.

Bodies call other bodies closer;

set one another in motion.

Basic physics–choreography

for stars and planets–

Astronomy.

The moon sings a song

which pulls the tides

in and out perpetually–

unending in their rhythm;

The mass of this earth,

the tension within water,

the gradient of land

pulls rivulets and brooks

and streams, from the mountains

Together, and down to sea level;

down further still

to a center we can never see,

although it's always looking back,

remembering the summit.

We learn all this in grade school,

of course. Make water cycle posters,

inform our parents and teachers

who indulgently nod and murmur

understanding, pretending not to remember

what we can never forget.

And so maybe nobody asks for this

(not first, not ever).

Gravity exists. You and I exist—

mass, gravity, tension–

bodies moving;

Breath mixing like river flow–

wounds entwined,

rot and brine

and freshwater

rising, together.