Kate Maurer

COME TO WATER

Every day, I tell him fill it in, but he won’t listen
He says he wants it for fishing, but some ponds
Can pull a man down in the clay and never let him up.
And you never know what will come to water.

In the summers, he’s not watching and I am
That pond last week drew down a lost balloon
Dark purple, floating like a ghost on the south wind
I tell him, fill it in, but he won’t listen.

Something under that water makes things crazy
Hottest day of the year, sixty lost head of black Angus
Wallowed in to drink, bawling and ripping the cat tails
There’s no telling what will come to water.

His father should be ashamed, out with that forked stick
Hanging down to find water, his eyes closed, shuddering
And sucking through spit in the corner of his mouth
I tell him, fill it in but he won’t listen.

In the summer you hear the wind coming a long way off
The roar builds in the leaves for miles before it moves things here
At night, you hear screaming and shots in the woods
You never know what will come to water.

That old man says there’s a panther back there
And I think it comes to drink at night
I told him, fill it in, but he won’t listen
There’s no telling what will come to water.




Kate Maurer's poetry has appeared in the Texas Review and is forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review and Alaska Quarterly Review. She lives in Urbana, Illinois.