Martha Serpas: Water Bird
there in the river is what I am not
it does not look at me
stillness repeating its choice
scores of marauding carp
spring out of the tides
I think I could watch
the water bird’s white-breasted
profile forever
I think I could unravel
its yellow roots and plume
like so much macramé
there on the river
the mudflats and cord grass
turn textured and thick
splattered gesso and oils
I can’t look
and then the river is also
what it is not
and I am what I was
whatever that is
between us
the water bird
when it finally quits
the water
its wings widen like a compass
for drawing circles
the circle around us
breaks and only small arcs
remain, the sun the ripples
the water bird’s flattening eye.