by SHAUNA M. MORGAN
Drum Festival
It made sense
that we would find ourselves
alone on the bank,
although we must have forgotten
there was a river, though
that day she swelled,
covering the rocks that glimmered
and flashed up to my window.
That day she muddied the waters,
raged under the bridge,
uprooting careless saplings
that had begun to make a bed
near the shore,
chasing away the purple martins,
sending them launching
then diving quick and sharp.
We did not see or remember,
but her sound and rhythm
and urgency
must have moved our own.
Each roar and crash,
every pulse and drumbeat
coming
in low pitches,
reverberating still.
Scent of Wood and Water
Before breeding slaves
became more profitable
than buying them,
she walked, feet bare and dusty,
after dark
through wood sorrel
and wild sarsaparilla,
her legs and knees sweetened
by the berries.
She tore off wintergreen leaves,
crushed them in her fingers
until she reached him,
all scent and water.
And he, salt-skinned,
a journey on his back,
valleys and rivers
and ridges, reached for her
in the dark
knowing just where to find her
waist, how to free her breasts,
how to love,
all scent and wood and man,
until she whimpered,
rested on his shoulder
and greeted him
with her tongue
and slept, at last.