The river is quiet tonight but somehow still alive
and my mind is abuzz. The water sops up the riverbank,
back and forth, and quickening, a dance, a beating:
a silent song like my sister’s arms when she beats down the dough
or like the time I came home late and the porch light was still on.
I am sure there is a message in a bottle somewhere, a kite struck
by lightning bobbing somewhere in the in the river’s murky body,
but for now I am here, feet planted in the rich soil, mind past the horizon
and my thoughts run vociferously like bulls to crimson, like dogs to blood, wolves to strawberry,
moons, and they cannot, will not be silenced, because
I must be more than the flesh and the cells,
blood and bone, mass and marrow that comprise me but do not define me.
I am frenzied and broken and and holy and hopeful,
but somehow I am still alive–or perhaps because of it.
By Emunah Garmaise
Emunah Garmaise is a poet, mental health advocate, and writer for The Ruth Project, a gender equity organization.