Miles from Standing Rock, tonight,
By Leah Angstman
over this snowdrift land fires light into the expanse—
a joke, it seems, the ice melting into puddles of fresh water
beneath throngs sending signals upward: rain down.
Our bodies are water, in and on,
at heartbeats of what we must think and drink—
You know when you've gone dry,
to go without breath and skin,
roots to your earth.
What is water to us, and how do we own it?
Broken at the base of Ash Coulee,
spill under vitality herded through fist,
uncontained. Make the point drawn from wells of irony:
we'll claim what soaks in our soles,
but it could be anything, oil-thick or water-wet,
what rains up.
Categories: Featured Poems from Our Subscribers