by Anna Medina
Running water,
Perpetually flowing.
Content without structure -
without identity.
Does the earth truly grieve
as brooks fill and dry,
as the tides recede and as streets flood?
Does a stream reflect as profoundly as me when it weeps?
Does it also seethe with jealousy
at the mention of my form?
How my skin is tangible,
born with a completeness of being:
How I laugh, grieve, fear and how I muse?
At dark when streets fall silent
I hear its tongue-tied cries,
its nightly writhing.
The longings for the tender touch of a mother
To embrace its cold intangible skin on desolate nights.
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