I crouch makeshift above the eddy,
crude, temporary, dingy,
reeking of brushed pollen
and storm drains.
I drink from the creek because it’s savage,
take the runoff in my palms because it’s savage,
rinse and chew the unnamed roots
because they taste of celery and toxin.
Not once did it kill me.
But there, above the eddy,
looking down upon the still,
mud supping on my shoes,
I saw him – Jesus – six-legged,
spread wide as if nailed
to the water itself.
Unschooled to the subtler laws
pertaining to such miracles,
I knew only this – the living clings
to water as the icons cling to death.
Such a silly thought for a germ, for a boy.
I was young then – catholic.
I’ve moved off those savage things,
wound, wounded with wonder.
And though I plunder the hollow abides,
something calls upon my shriveling mind –
Return. For what you seek upon the water strides.