for Michelle
Ankle-deep, squatting
among the darting minnows, having
caught herself again focused
on her reflected nose and hand-me-down chin,
she notices nothing, so lets herself
wonder (she swore she wouldn’t) how long
she must stay this way before she is
transformed. And what would she become—
a root that grips the bank, or a sliver
of the rocks her brothers never tire
of skipping across the water?
Then
another thought enters. Maybe, unnoticed
as she is, she might become something
altogether different than roots and rock,
something buried, forgotten, or better,
buried so as never to be known,
a thing unnamed, something,
at last, unnamable.
