The Missing River
1 Minute Read Time
did not disappear slowly, as some rivers do,
paved over in a cracked laminate of asphalt
and concrete, its flow dwindling into a thin
necklace of puddles edged in phosphorous
green. No. It just slipped away in the night.
We walked out onto the bridge and peered
to where weeds lay flat and lank as wet hair
and a single silver fish skittered and shook,
its belly flashing white before it settled back
into the mud to flex its gills and choke shut
on the strange air. You could smell the rank
emptiness everywhere, the fecund silkiness
that greased the stones along the bottom.
People did not like the reminder that they
live in such proximity to the stink of decay.
Read more from Issue 21.2.
