I live near a filthy river.
I have always lived near a filthy river,
and yet the nymphs climb the metal netting
of half-submerged shopping carts to sing to me!
What do they sing? Sometimes it's Palestrina,
and sometimes it's Marvin Gaye.
Often I tie myself to the mast of a ship,
so as to be seduced but not
led away
into d**h. Occasionally,
I listen and drown.
I drown in a filthy river.
I have always drowned in a filthy river
to rise like Osiris with the dawn,
to sink in the mud that I know
is the source of all song.
I would ask you to join me,
but you swat your arms
and complain about the mosquitoes.
Let them bite, draw blood.
You will remember a song
from your childhood
or the first good kiss, or the way
light played on your legs the first time
you knew they were pretty.
Don't be afraid. I have made this poem
for you to enter. Enter the river.
The mud between your toes
is your mother. The sun on your freckled back
knows your name.
Willow thy hair, and roots thy limbs.
Climb the netting of half-submerged shopping carts.
Sing Palestrina or Marvin Gaye. Sing in the river
only until the song remains.