by Casey Dwyer
When you were under the fig tree
I saw you, sitting there
turning the late leaves in your fingers
like Isaac, chewing the cud.
I saw you
Israel’s son, never-liar
who dreams of Israel’s ladder.
I saw you
your thoughts a kind of mirror
Praying? As thought is prayer.
Your mind is the audience of angels
all now climbing down
on my back.
Mother is a Kind of River
I once lived close to the water
The old river kept keeping pace
until it was canyoned into concrete
Sad river, river carrying our death.
They said the trees are barked-water
I used to lay beneath their waves
Their twined canopies knocking in the wind
Old wind, wind that blows now the empty air.
Water cuts furrows in the dirt
Searching ever for the other
To puddle, to pool, to find, feed the lake
Relic lake, lake fed by ancient pressure.
These fused bodies are pooled water
Laughing water, longing water
Our mother is a kind of river
Sad river, river dried away by death.
Casey Dwyer is a poet living in Wisconsin. His work has been published in print and online, and focuses on the intersection of memory, faith, and nature.
