The river is my sister—I am its daughter.
It is my hands when I drink from it,
my own eye when I am weeping,
and my desire when I ache like a yucca bell
in the night. The river says, Open your mouth to me,
and I will make you more.
Because even a river can be lonely,
even a river can die of thirst.
I am both—the river and its vessel.
It maps me alluvium. A net of moon-colored fish.
I've flashed through it like copper wire.
Excerpt from The First Water is the Body. Copyright © by Natalie Diaz. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Source: Postcolonial Love Poem (Graywolf Press, 2020)