Apparently it happens more times than you’d think.
My unremarkable aunt transformed to water after she’d refused to cry for forty years. The pressure built, overflowed where she thought to dam it in, and oozed around berm or bank to find its course. We watched her give in until giving became flow, then current. A will to go where she wants. We call her River. And we serve her. For water is strong, water can call other water. Can weather fire and storm. We fear she’ll run to the lake shore, we’ll lose her to the oceans. Oh the storms, then. The rising waters—daughters of confinement and rage.
Michigan poet Lynn Pattison’s work has appeared in The Notre Dame Review, Rhino, Harpur Palate, Smartish Pace, Rattle, Tinderbox, Slipstream, and Poetry East, among others, and has been anthologized in several venues. She is the author of three collections: tesla’s daughter (March St. Press); Walking Back the Cat (Bright Hill Press); and Light That Sounds Like Breaking (Mayapple Press).