-nearer to route 6-

deep in standing fresh-water

we navigate the cattail reeds
stiff with base nutrients

absorbed from the silt.

above the banks
the textile mills are fixed in granite
mined from the obstinate
walls of the city's quarry.

plumes of smoke struggle
through the throats of overpowering stacks,
billow with freedom, expand and slowly
break-away into the shimmering overcast.

sometimes our heads break through

the stillness of the surface to the nostrils
breathing outward, agitating water,

our eyes drenched,

bloodshot with irritants —
the skin of our blanched finger-tips
numb as crumpled paper
and with the girls who show-up,

who show-up for a reason, we

come together under the water

pliable as the clay which made us.

sometimes we swallow the water

in our haste to breathe inward

and later we’ll think about polio

asking questions at the supper-tables.

                                      Quequechan