To be published in the Winter, 2026 issue of The Fourth River Literary Journal

Amor Fati

I was drifting in a boat.
Then, in the middle of
this wide blue river,
the water asked me
an impertinent question --
it wanted to know
the scope of its banks,
the curve and reach,
the cut and alluvion,
the pace and gathering volume
that might lift the
bankfull to a place
where, even as guided by gravity,
it would not outlast time.
 
The middle of the river
wanted to know if the end
might be ahead,
if the next bend of this slow
and sinuous meandering
might turn to a murky delta
bleeding to the sea.
 
Water, as is its nature,
lets questions sink in.
It does not want answers --
the favor is in the asking.
 
But in this frail boat
I am too solid still.
I can’t circumvent answers.
So I tell the water
“from this oxbow
we’ll flow to the dark mother --
her arms holding us under.”
I am inundated with answers.
 
Uncertain hands cup
the rising waters in the bilge of the boat,
water not yet brackish,
and not yet from the sea.
I am thinking that bailing alone
could keep us afloat.
But better, perhaps, to learn
to love the sinking.