AMARA AMARYAH
1
you are medicine.
you tell me, my head weighed down
water dripping slick
paths down my neck. i inhale,
squint eyes, resemble someone
2
with dainty palms you
weave strands back to their wildness
detangling, i think;
my true origin — the cusp
between hands and fresh water
3
a large river bathes
my skull, feels like common root,
something such as thread.
i think of drenched islands now
gone, until the river stills
4
often i long for
what was mine. that is sun-grown,
that is vine-ripened
that is indigenous, kin
to waters never once feared
5
you pour olive oil
the nerves at my crown’s centre
awash with healing.
see, medicine as you tilt
my head further back to soak
6
i wonder if you
too crane your neck at basin
edges, searching for
mossed river bed, sunken leaves
still there, under fingertips.
