We could gather
together, kinked elbow
to elbow, wiggly fingers
snugly knotted (not the knot
of a smoothed-down board,
the knot, all bumps and twists,
we tied when we didn’t tie knots
very well, but we tied them
close and tight), at the creek
we call a brook to make it feel
magical (that kind of magic
where frogs speak their curses
before they splash off).
We could gather
there, and not speak
the rathers we’ve used not to,
rathering not to be gathering,
rathering not to see how we fit
elbow to elbow, or how a creek
isn’t any less magical than a brook.
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