Poetry | Midstream | Mary Ann Schaefer

Midstream listen
If you’re listening
to this, the flow is all
around you, eddies
of snowmelt swashing
against the obstacle
of your gasping
flesh, its outlandish
idea of crossing.  You
are standing not on tile
but on shifting sand and/or
slippery pebbles and/or
broken boulder gravel as
your toes squirm and your
unshod soles stamp and
grouch — so just hold
still while the current kisses
you in the soft places only
a lover knows about.
Schools of aquatic
fireflies graze your
skin with cool thoughts,
flickering between
the splashing shadows
of your indecision:  here
you are, half underwater,
half overhead, half
sinking, half floating,
halfway between the bank
and the shore.  In theory,
you could drown here,
sighing through
the immersion
with vestigial
gills.