Sharks in the Rivers

by Ada Limon

She cannot decide what she desires, but today it is enough that she desires and desires.

ten thousand perfect (good enough) bruises.

We’re molded in metal here together, we contend with catapult, we will stick this spun-surly life out.

Alluvial soil, this claim we call our own, take us back in.

For starters, it was all an accident; you cut the right branch and a sort of light woke up underneath, and the inedible fruit grew dark and needy.

Beauty will come to you, lay down at your feet, put its wild hair in your lap. Will you know it, Gringo?

I have said too much, yet give me this— I want to be a physical doll, just for now, a stupid, splendid thing, tumbled into the touchable day.

You can be taken down as easily as taken up, leave your arms loose in the hour, your body buoyed by your own coalition with the air.

A cloud of cormorants comes flooding out of rushed wind, out of sunned sea-bound waves.

The very first time I really loved sex was the very first time I was happy to be a girl.

Turned out there was nothing beyond the blue sky. Which made the sky bluer and more holy than it had been before.

Lost ones in the bones, your water damage, your rage of flood and fire and still, all along Warm Springs Road the naked ladies have the nerve to flower pink and full.

People with lost ones in their bones can still flower pink.

(Sharks are listening right now, I’m sending out signals.) I’m dreaming of them. I’m wrapping my arms around their cold, gray, magnificent bodies.

Brother, the cord to this world is a frayed rope and it beats our poor bodies like drum skins and I’m running the city water now in a sink safe from harm, and across the surface of most states there’s a phone ringing and a somebody’s lost something, a somebody’s lost a somebody, and a somebody’s come home, and I’m unmoved in the kitchen pulling wings out of my teeth, praying for loads more wishes and a body out there waiting for this somebody in the kitchen waiting to be done stung.