if at dusk the river’s peach trembles into soot—if hip-thick in mist i tracepetals on waves—if the ripple slurs on, past its outer limit—if the fact     of my finger makes the sky gild—if from a distance i look like a ghost,it’s because i’m out here with my ghosts—if the men yell bongas, suspect our flush     places wax carnal—if plumes off the shoreline mean that’s our earth,killing again—& we know about killing, about twine binding ankles     to a thin branch—if my ghosts tell me how they lived—morningsizzling dew off the shrubs, the smallness of a tea leaf in a hand, the power     to crush or fray a living thing : fiber by fiber—if i say to one it’s gettingdark & she turns her head toward me, backlit by gold streak, says but you     are the matron of water, her eyes pepper-swollen, limbs thickwith sinking—if the castor plant grazed her skin nightly—if we float—     if we float—if we float & soak the lentils & follow the field’s rows& if we came here as brides & they threw us a feast, said welcome—sisters,     i say, here we are at the end of the earth—if the sky immolates—magenta rimming the day as it dies—if it looks hopeless—if it is     hopeless—on the shore men jeer & hurl branches—if we don’t turnback—if we wade out together, cursed women, & find mountains instead—