At the Riverbank, There is a Half-Drowned Body

They took you down to the riverbank and told
you God was hiding underneath the water that ran
full of ache. You pressed your aching temples into
the water and a voice that sounded like God told
you to try further deep. Your head swimming 
further deep with lost aches. Some
looked like koi fish others looked like feverish eels
the color of moss. Their gaping mouths like open graves
reminded you of your grandmother before her death.

On the bottom of the river you saw cracked gray
flooring like a barren desert floor. Cracks wide
as whole countries. A muffled voice that
made the river quiver greeted you
asking if you were drowned enough to speak to him.
Your mouth swallowed wet air to answer as the
voice faded into the distance. And from underneath
you saw desperation howling on the surface
reaching down with an iron palm.

//

Your body half-drowned laid on the riverbank. River water ran like rivulets
down your face. Your bones were light but full of noise

+++++++++++++++//

+++++++++++++++noise that followed you since you were a little boy
under a Mexican starry night when the cicadas crooned and your mother tried
holding you with hands that were tired from praying

//

because you had seen death in your head for the first time.

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Andiver Castellanos

Andiver Castellanos is a poet based in South Los Angeles. He studied English Literature at the University of California, Los Angeles, and then went on to pursue a Masters of Social Work from the University of Southern California. He has been writing poetry since he was a teen, but has recently decided to submit his work to different literary magazines for publication.

Latest posts by Andiver Castellanos (see all)

• At the Riverbank, There is a Half-Drowned Body - January 27, 2023