Without a Name

On the eternal banks
of a boundless river,
Asherah finds my soul on her knees,
sick with remembering.
Her ragged palms plum-bruised, unable
to open, let go. She rasps, her throat tarnished
by the deathly fingers of a pressing past,
a scarlet collar as if marking her for slaughter. 

Even so, I have fastened
my life in some semblance of balance,
the tenuous bond between
what I wish had happened and
the angular reality served to me
on the satiny crests of another soul-sick morning.
I want to trace the secrets of my fingertips
along the veins of the river, unspooling
the shroud of violence that clings to me
so many memories, like algae
washing from my callused hands.

On the eternal banks
of a nameless river,
my soul finds Asherah, and we listen
to the stillness, knowing we are expected
to forgive, but for now, it is enough
to see the water
rushing past my feet.  

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