Bennet Creek

Bennet Creek drips under freeways, through somewhat untouched land. Its banks are lined with deep clay and a thin layer of sand that is sticking to your pale legs as you skip a stone I found. Somewhere down the river is a ghost that I helped drown. I went swimming here last summer with the kids I met at shows. Waiting naked in the thunder as the rain soaked cast-off clothes, I thought about the water and how anyone knows just how deep their legs will reach when it’s too muddied to see.

That night the violet sunset issued forth a desperate plea to never be forgotten or replaced or written over. In the winter Bennet Creek, naturally got so much colder that I visited in jackets, my feet dressed in woolen socks. Harder, wearing gloves, to skip the smoothest rocks. Sometimes nature makes you whisper to the one you always shout at when you’re drunk or feeling lonely and the lock is off your mouth. See, all these twigs came from far, far north from frozen floes, places where the wild wind always howls when it blows and I never have to be quiet or calm myself back down and I can follow Bennet Creek back to the sewers of my town.

And I will never skip stones again and I will never feel alone again and I will be happy on my own again and I am going home again.

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~ by perfectionatrix on April 10, 2010.

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