Words for the Chisel (collection)/The Desert Remembers Her Reasons
The Desert Remembers Her Reasons
How many rivers swerved asideRather than take a stony bride!Rather than take a stony brideRivers and rivers swerved asideAnd I grew desolate, and died.
At my hot breath they checked their rushAnd reared a wave, a head, and hush. . . .Then fell and fled and would not comeTo kiss the color of my loam.
The young bright rivers backed and fought—And I lay thirsty and unsought.
They married valleys. If I caughtWater in my hand, it seeped. . . .Rivers around—rain over me—leaped;I was unwatered and unreaped.Rather than take me for their brideRivers and rivers swerved asideAnd I grew desolate, and died.
—(They shook their silver manes and curvedAside. Aside they swept and swervedPast my dull grandeur. River drovesDared do no more than pound their hoovesAnd skirt my sombre purple. . . . WhiteGalloping cataracts took to flight.)
Why have I the lustre of stone?Color of scorn, and scorn's toneBrood over me. I move beneathPale dust with an edged breath.
Sliding under cover of sandI throttle young rivers with a bold hand.