Cache Creek

Everything I’ve lost is here in the eddies,
the face I had when I was young reflecting
in still water, the voices of my lovers
audible in ripples. This mud on the bank
is the work I didn’t love and that arching
branch the enterprise that saved me. Wet stones
beneath my feet are the lullabies I’ve sung
to other peoples’ children. The deepest pool
is where I drowned my own.

— Molly Fisk, author of The More Difficult Beauty

T. S. Poetry

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