I come to the water by foxtail, oxtail, hawktail, tail of horse and beaver and lion. I come to the water because I know not what else to do to soothe the burning of my paws and claws, to soothe the burning of my joints, my heart.
I come to the water afraid and emboldened. Here on the bank, I sniff out oasis. I sink to my knees, and my knees sink into the dirt, and the wet earth grits up against my skin, pulls me down ’til my fear is tethered and changed. I come to the water on my knees,
and then, on my belly, slithering, crawling, inching my mouth close to the liquid, inching my heart close to the truth, inch by inch until inches disappear. There is no way to measure this liquid self.
I dissolve and blend and ripple. I come to the water, and the water comes to me.
I come to the water, the pounding and realizing and releasing, the thrumming of tides, the tiding of appetites. I am afraid of a four-day fast, but I long to be emptied.
I come to the water to do for me what I fear. I come to home. I come to self. I come.