THE RIVER Poem by Hester Knibbe

I fill what is low-lying with my passing


and drag along with me through town and country


a past that has to settle





in my depths. No matter if I shrink


or swell, I wear and tear the inside


of my skin; my bed I'm





not and yet I am. I have no eye


for left and right: drifting slowly


on my undertow, my arms at times


outstretched, so that I





take in yet more ground, I drown


in my own me. Not that I


stifle in myself, heaven


I find there and also sludge