~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn’t the current that woke me~
nor the moon’s cracked reflection
slipping between the reeds.
It was the hush,
the way the water paused
mid-sentence,
as if gathering words
from the silt,
from the bones of fish
who forgot how to swim upstream.
Then~
a voice like wet stones,
like roots unbraiding.
Listen, it said,
not to me,
but to the banks,
to the willow’s slow bow,
to the heron’s hollow legs
standing knee-deep in time.
I waited for meaning,
for a prophecy curled in riverweed.
But the water only chuckled
a sound like pebbles rolling downhill~
and flowed on,
carrying its secrets
to the sea’s open mouth.
The Unbraiding
Had he seen the psychiatrist then,
nine years and six children ago,
he’s certain the doctor would have said,
“Never mind whether you should marry the girl.
That’s not the question.
Go home and go to bed.
Come see me next Tuesday at ten.
We’ll begin to unbraid you.”
Donal Mahoney
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