The Spatter of Waterfalls

by Joshua Coben

If to the mind the soul is water
murkier than engine oil,
teeming with unseen particles
that quicken ponds and vernal pools,
yet shapeless and devoid of smell,

if it can waver in the palm,
a faceless mirror, until I try
to squeeze it down to nil, but find
it spreads a slick across the floor
or wicks through the carpet of my cells,

then it might bear the tinge of soil
and seepage, sediment and solvents,
calcite caves and every rusted
pipe that carries it along,
tasting of all its passages.

I spring from the spatter of waterfalls
where generational rivers spill.
I wear the mists of ancestors
and ancient weathers, and what I call
the soul must glimmer in the tatters.

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Joshua Coben is the author of two poetry collections, Maker of Shadows (Texas Review Press, 2010), winner of the X. J. Kennedy Poetry Prize, and Night Chaser (David Robert Books, 2020), a finalist for the Vassar Miller Prize, the New American Poetry Prize, and the Donald Justice Poetry Prize. He lives in Massachusetts. Visit him at joshuacoben.com.