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Truth in Moisture
by Kate Dean

When did my soul 
             begin to dry out?
When immersion baths
             gave way to brief sprinkles?
When dew soaked shoes 
             instead of backs, legs, chests,
                         rolling, rolling, rolling?
When the sorrow of pond swimming
             spread to river and stream
                         and puddle?
         

I gave puddles to my children
             That they may stay wet.
One holds feet far above mud,
             his heart hovers outside his body.
         

When the pole star of the sextant
             veers from true north;
When the projected image 
             fails to line up with the bones;
When the seconds of the clock’s ticking
             have different lengths;
When there exists no filter
             to purify this water,
         

To duck under 
             is neither floating nor sinking.
To breathe water;
             to choke on air.

 

Copyright 2007 by Kate Dean