Supplication at the River

For Mojgan

And then I would turn away
and into something other,
as if the way the water moves,
confluence of sources, metaphor
for everything, but essential and itself,
would be my way of moving.

As if there really were some
possibilities, some place to go, and
not just this repetition of first losses.
As if the self could be a departure,
even if only through a fresh grief,
that would be a returning and a beginning.

As if the water that I am
might find a better form,
rise above, in a body composed
of something other than lust and sorrow,
or simply slip down into this water,
which atones, and forgets, and need not speak.