Immortals

Immortals

The pond is a knot
sweetly tied. We imagine
tadpoles to whales,
believing we are gods.

A sweltering of heat
bends us into willows.
Black-heart horseflies
our mortal enemies,

but not one of us
brave enough to escape
through the mirror
of brown shimmering.

We tote a summer’s
worth of sweat from one
bank to the other; we
mean to bring water.

Somehow we never
remember. As evening
bakes in, thick and slow,
we sit on the ridge

above the pond— black –
birds holding down a wire,
preaching day into night
with the clatter of our tongues.


Indigo Moor

Posted over on Freewebs
Previously published in Tap-Root.