after Bhanu Kapil’s The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers



On a river trail

alongside a tributary far from its source,
I realise that still
I don’t know

the nomenclature.
             Trees awash in uncertainty.
There is an ongoing rain within me,

relentless
symbol of grief
now common enough

that I haven’t felt triggered
in days. I convince myself this is a glistening,
a few hours of triumph

over my body
as my hiking boots shape the mud

into versions
of myself that I can never know

again. I only know
the way the ///// tree disguises itself
             in colonial replacement
and feel shame in this kind of knowledge.
A partial reminder of

the inheritance
I didn’t bother to value.
             Wind and other methods of erosion.
I try to embed love here

at the slip.
If I am honest, I know

I am too late before I even begin.
While on the public footpath,

trees are punctuated
by moss and lichen, brittle growths indicating

a lack
of vigour.
Out here, weather is my only forest

guide—
turn left. No, pause.

Last night’s rain filled

the floodplain and the water is too deep.
I turn toward small flowers and

disappearing green life.
             Water reflects my earliest dreams.
The space between oxbow and levee

is only ever as wide
as the gaze placed upon it.