Martha Serpas.
“The Water.”
© Martha Serpas.
Used by permission.
All rights reserved.
In the morning the water waits like a deckhand,
a persistent curl against the shore,
who won�t back down, take no, or be denied.
It is there under the wharf and soon under
the house, whoring with any swamp rat
or snake. It rings cypress knees with pearls�
it dreams under the sun like cut cane,
throwing back the salt you wash away,
then wearing pilings down to air.
Your houses wade on stilts tall as pillars,
their sheet-metal skulls bared to a mildewed
sky. Against the fallen trees rain and lapping
tide meet, slapping of nets and fish and
naked children pulling driftwood boats
in one joyful noise around your sleep.
In the afternoon the water is there, only more,
browner and grayer, no sweeping seaweed or foam,
just its presence farther up your shore,
like a dull brother-in-law in front of TV.
He means something to somebody�
but not you, not just now. Its slow wake seems
harmless, the litany of waves before a storm
rolling benignly ashore. Intoxicating!
And then it is there, all gray length of it,
rich sex of it, it wants you so badly,
it pounds at the door, Let me take
your smallness, your jetties, your broad
coasts, your loam. It gathers
at night beyond the curtain of mosquitoes,
darker than the shut-down sky,
the boarded-up clouds. Its desire
thrums like an idling outboard. Ignore
it, and it tows itself into your dreams. It�s
everywhere, every chance, all the time.
It is more certain than death or love.
It must have been conceived by death and love.
When the last silt sinks under your feet,
you will have to walk out on this water.
Text prepared by:
- Bruce R. Magee
Source
Serpas, Martha. “The Water.” Martha Serpas Poems. <http:// www. martha serpas.com/ poem_ water. html>. © Martha Serpas. Used by permission. All rights reserved.