oh, deep-scarred floodplain, i
love your vulnerable mass; tiny
missionaries dot you with canoes
and rafts…i like the smell of their
salted skin, meat rot on the locals’
breath, and their hands hold
tight to golden ideals like
pearls lost at sea…the children
watch clay reptilian shapes
gracefully twist under the rocks…
i see your surface pulse with shadow
as clouds pass, your heartbeat
thundering against the roofs of
neighboring huts; you will guard
them as long as your many fists
hold…rainwater sings against deep
soil as the laughing people turn
dark with your mud.