Three rivers run

in my blood, where my mother takes

me home, where mud lives between toes, and rain

is a creature that transforms before my eyes, into river water

falling from rocks into my blood, stepping

carefully along Country, breaking

it gently as it does.
Here where I river-float

with my ancestor brother. I make ripples

he doesn’t. We’re laughing at Dad, tellin again

how Billabong comes from a Wiradjuri word. Old man crow

is eyein us from the banks. We know it’s

Grandfather tellin us youngfullas

“Respect your Elders.”
This River is old

like Earth’s granite bones

endorheic and slowing, for marsh lovers

reed weavers, for migratory mob. This River flows

old magic backwards from sea, makes saltwater

spirits in freshwater

shallows.
This river

is swollen with matriarchy

she’s boiling, flooded and cold

she jumps dams, eats earth with insatiable hunger, dumps fish

on front lawns, puts a couch in the tree

tells the kids “Get in

here NOW!”
This river

inhales and exhales

with the tides, she is connected to the rhythm

of all things, pulled and pushed by the gravity of dark matter

she flows where she wants, grows where she wants

and menstruates mud

along coastline.
River’s name is

changed from the place where

Brolgas played to the name of a man who once

owned a company, a company that changes the shape

of the river, bares Country of bush

makes it barren

and used.
This English language

is full of polite words for things

that are violent. Ownership. Colonisation.

Non-consensual. Stolen. Dredging. Damming. Irrigation.

Mining. Aqueduct. Rape. River sleeps this year.

Sleeps deep. Where river?

Here river.
My river, my river

my river is a finger of universe

pointing, is spring-fed, is snowmelt

is rain-filled, is flesh warmed on bones, is Country

knowing, flowing, flooding, my river

my body, your river, our body

soon may be gone.