Found on the Pond Deck
The husk of a tiny dragonfly, translucent,
clings upside down on a yellow spear of grass
its roots clasp the dry wood of the deck.
Tiny white fibers everywhere: the planks, breathing,
expectorate their innards, wood weeps and uncoils
what it knew when it stood, tall in a wet Redwood forest,
before the chains of a truckbed, dark and long, bite, here,
where all trees are twisted into themselves against
the prevailing winds. On that white-spun deck,
I remember my watery nature, pour my liquid body
to wash away the pain of the shorter years,
to wash away the pain of a hollow embrace,
the feeling that we all will slide, not into the clear pool,
but into the murk of a place that should not be settled.
Notes:
This poem only appears in the digital edition of Poetry and is reprinted from: Kuppers, Petra. "Found on the Pond Deck" from Gut Botany. Copyright © 2020 Wayne State University Press, with the permission of Wayne State University Press.
Source:
Poetry
(January 2022)
