"poem" broadsheet #326: On Water (from Elizabeth to Jenny), by Elizabeth Robinson

It touches its own body to measure ambiguity.

Where do I go, asks the hand of the touch:

gas, liquid, solid.

I am not who I am.

What was once blue, was green, white, black, translucent.

And is so again. 

Water mates with itself, a lover falling hard through

soft,  betraying through trustworthy,  torrent through

opacity.

All that we knew of each other in our form,

where do I go, blunt and insinuating.

The touch paired with itself.  A humid air.

The point of contact as it bathes and thirsts.

A hand on a real body, its mutable fact.

On Water (from Elizabeth to Jenny)
by Elizabeth Robinson
above/ground press broadside #326

Elizabeth Robinson’s must recent books are the hybrid essay On Ghosts and the poetry collections Counterpart and Blue Heron.  Robinson is a co-editor of Instance Press and the literary periodical pallaksch.pallaksch.