the art of making a river

all life originated  
from the green 
coiled garden
hose--
entwined around itself
on the porch--
a snake-- loops
gushing with
clear blood-- 
inside the hose 
held all of our skipped
stones off
the bottom
of the creek--
fish hooks &
bobbers--
my silver claddagh 
ring lost
down some drain--
emptied to
the ocean & back
to the garden hose--
billy & i
cranked the
grey knob 
to turn on the
water--
it squealed &
squealed-- 
like a newborn
song bird-- 
all pink-necked 
& screaming for
flight--
screaming for 
loam & clay--
we laid the hose
there & let water
spill down
the black asphalt 
driveway-- naturally
the trickle separated 
into little strands of
river-- the ganges
the nile-- the hudson--
seine & ephrates--
each one thrumming with
the anxious bodies
of fish-- each one 
full of skipped stones--
each one whose river bank
held our bare feet--
i remember being
scared to turn off 
the hose-- knowing
these rivers would stop--
i had been so proud of
their private rush for
my brother & i there--
we small skinned-knee gods--
hunched over
& watching man learn how
to fish--
learn how to walk on
water-- learn how
to send their dead down
the river-- decorated 
in flowers-- marigold &
rose-- the floating
lantern lights
are mistaken for
stars--
dad would come out &
warn billy & i about
the water bill--
the price we all pay for
being a god--
& the rivers would run dry--
the great drought--
fish flopping on
the pavement--
the world's rivers 
trickling into grass--
we small bare foot
gods 
were left to watch
the sun suck
them dry