by L. Annette Binder
It’s a river, this darkening disease.
At night it runs beneath your bed.
You hear the water inside your walls,
winding its way down to the foundation
stones and turning the plaster
to powder. Sleep, when it comes,
brings no rest. Snakes coil against
your pillow, and you catch them
like Hercules and choke them
in your fists.
It’s a river and a fire, and it fills your eyes
with ash. Choke it up. Cough it out,
and when it pulls
you must pull back.
It will take you to the center of things
if you let it.
Down to where the stones are
and the tangled roots.
You are tired. There’s a burning in your veins
and black water, too. And still
you walk the bank and watch the silver
carp flash along the surface.
And when it pulls, you pull back,
and dip your hand
into the water.
