Roiled under screws and paddles
ribbons of mud roll too slow to turn,
too slow to turn aside the pull of big water.
Above the surface I breathe,
skip pulsed and pilled full of bite,
my mud-washed throat grinds words.
Deep in bullhead holes, spines and slime
guard the pale yellow belly.
Black oxbow stink clings to my legs.
Rising from the slow creek, scattering eelpouts,
fish-foul sun bakes the tar-black scum.
Check for leeches and lay in the marsh hay.
In the light, on the peat, hawkweed sings
to the hoppers and toads.
Black water and cedar, heal me.
Jump that tip jar, stomp it like a grape.