Ellie Anderson
"You have to move with the river," he said.
"Otherwise, it will kill you."
He dove from the bridge, came up for air
a black dot, downstream, guided by invisible
filaments from shore, his arms
stroking white caps.
The current tried to pull my
skin off, yanked my hair back,
threw me against rocks I tried to
cling to but slid away from,
slippery moss washing
over my arms. I tore
my nails over granite.
I leaned deep into the river,
to float low, drift in the green,
let my lungs fill with water.
He pulled me out by the arms and left me
face down in the small rocks on the edge.
In our family, we struggle with
the places where the line gets tangled
and drags us through rough water by the hair.
I don't know what you struggle with.
I cannot see your broken lines.
I only know they are there.