Water
by Ron Riekki
I’ve always lived by water. Not that I
have tried to do this. There are a billion
deserts nearby, over that hill. I never go
over that hill. I stay here, by the lake,
by the bodies that have drowned—cousin,
uncle, another cousin, neighbor, another.
There isn’t even any sorrow anymore.
We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk
about anything, my mother telling me
she has lost the ability to cry, my sister
lost in her work so that we don’t see
her anymore, when I see her I notice
the differences in her face, how more
and more she is being erased by her
wealth and, on the other side of this
world, the poverty that takes root in
my parents; they can’t even afford
the moon anymore. From now on,
it seems, the night will only be empty,
and we stare into the hole up there.
It looks like a lake, my mother says.
have tried to do this. There are a billion
deserts nearby, over that hill. I never go
over that hill. I stay here, by the lake,
by the bodies that have drowned—cousin,
uncle, another cousin, neighbor, another.
There isn’t even any sorrow anymore.
We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk
about anything, my mother telling me
she has lost the ability to cry, my sister
lost in her work so that we don’t see
her anymore, when I see her I notice
the differences in her face, how more
and more she is being erased by her
wealth and, on the other side of this
world, the poverty that takes root in
my parents; they can’t even afford
the moon anymore. From now on,
it seems, the night will only be empty,
and we stare into the hole up there.
It looks like a lake, my mother says.
Ron Riekki’s books include My Ancestors are Reindeer Herders and I Am Melting in Extinction (Apprentice House Press), Posttraumatic (Hoot ‘n’ Waddle), and U.P. (Ghost Road Press). Right now, he's listening to Perfume Genius' "Grid."