In my year of always autumn, I stole back the river.

Hoarded its rasp and rush as I fled

through the low, hush light of trees,

where the dawn hung on birch branches.

Light stripping the trees to bandaged bark

while I ran, my heart crushing questions

instead of a pulse—how much farther—

was I strong enough to reach the water

without stopping? Calling pain praise

may not be exactly true, but I once knelt for hours

at the base of a splintered cross

until my knees were scraped raw,

legs snagged in cramps while the visiting pastor

snaked his fingers through my hair

as if he could shake Satan loose.

When I staggered to my knees at the river’s edge,

ribs constricted to cords, was my sweat

really so different from his ragged prayers?

We both wanted to drive out something sinful.

Here, at least, I slapped water across my arms

until I could almost believe

it was a balm, and I was already healed.