it's not the water's fault

the fraser swells in prince george when it meets the nechako,
like the word “love” when it’s so loaded that it just wants to bust right up,
explode & fling out  70 times 7 tiny little signifiers

the fraser is muddy &, let’s not lie, a little ugly.
stretches across too much canyon & cuts through too many small towns,
clumsy looking, it’ll drown you without intending to.
& the shores are far on both sides,
just like the word “love” when you’re so loaded, exploding empty signifires
in pick-up trucks, & up against shore-like bodies.

it’s not the water’s fault its got spring running into it, & summer sucking the fresh right out of it,
got people pissing down on it from bridges & flinging their bodies,
like 70 times 7 saints and sinners,
looking for god on the rocks.

i came to prince george & met the nechako,
swelled and fell (or flung)
right into love with the distance between shores.
stayed like the carcass of a pick-up truck that washed up against a bridge,
mistaken for a support structure.

well we’re mostly water anyways. & i feel like a marsh while my friends are all rivers.
but i dream that moses will strike a rock somewhere     or split my lip
& the water will be bitterness.
instead i’m heaving on your bathroom floor & it’s bitter but all that comes out is the sound of dry. you’re standing outside the door offering me a glass from the tap, & tapping on the door with the precision that i lack. i can’t swallow it or bring it back up. can’t find a drain     or a stream     or a river.
& anyways, it takes so long to follow through
find the spaces where we’d be full enough
to meet and swell.
loaded with explosive signifires
we’d empty ourselves                    into other bodies.