To Be Water,

not in water—
not whale or porpoise
seeking sonar depths,
tiles of sun trapped
in surface glint—

but the wet ooze,
the slackjawed, spooky renegade
of slosh and wave, tidal flood,
blind mammoth rolled in slumber,
sexed up with trailed sperm, seaweed,
over sands awhorl in fierce unrest,
tails of skates whipping the floors

or a rivulet of sweat on the flank of a mare
or the spit under the tongue of a liar,
or a final drop gliding on sclera
as yet unshed.

—Beverly A. Jackson

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