The river

imagem: Cassiano Rodka

por Marcella Marx

She was afraid of rivers.
Never had she understood how the liquid could spring up like that.
Tiny bubbles, drops, tears.
A secretion of something that, for some reason, could no longer be repressed
Down, under the earth.
Concealed by the depths,
Layers of lava and soil.

So much like her sad eyes welling in tears.
Water brims over from earth
Through these small spaces,
Then they run down,
Gravity obedient, course aggressive.
Carving land, digging into rocks, molding and moistening the surface of her skin.

She takes both her hands and presses them against her eyes.
She has to find a way to stanch the salty water.
Her hands are wet now, salty wet, and she can taste the consequences in her mouth.

Her hands move towards the ground and they choke the land.
The salt and the sweet of the water mix.
On her.
In the river.
And both keep on flowing in spite of her.

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