like wolf like river

sophie hall

stuck in the atmospheric river been trying to talk about how
water is always so intensely black or white for me everyone
here has become too accustomed to this gray vapor

but maybe I’ve just been out in the cold too long; my hair
does look darker when it’s wet

I followed the river flowing steady with hair instead of water
like light blonde locks looping over themselves would lead me
somewhere like I could find my way in softness unweighted
by black water I knew those smokey falls hardly knew them

I used to swim in a satellite dish my father felled from the ground
with the neighbor’s tools what that means is I don’t know how to swim
unless I can stand I’m used to these useless things
 
someone you know studied PTSD in wolves for sixteen years
but I know that wolves can swim up to eight miles and withstand
icy water what that means is I’m not a wolf what that means is
I’ve always been some kind of not-a-wolf

someone painted that satellite dish a muted green it peeled
wet acrylic under my wrinkled skin I don’t know where it is
now full of skin-salt water or mosquito-limb mud I almost miss
the sounds the rain before it fell my carcass when the sun
still tried

wolves eat for their survival is such an obvious thing to say

I’m more interested in what the river eats; the particular shade
of my hair tangled in its bed

Sophie Hall writes about homes and fears, especially where the two overlap. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Nat. Brut, Passengers, and MAYDAY, among others—and her first chapbook, Greenhouse, is forthcoming from First Matter Press. These days, Sophie is most dedicated to her dream journal. Find her on Instagram @sophieuhmanda.