Canal

The kitchen is full of tenderness and dutch ovens,
but I do not want to look for the ladder.

The water is so blue, the bluest
a green river can be. You cannot see

from your half of the rising river
but my nipples show through my shirt,

and they are magnificent. I look up
the dream meanings of canals

but not floating in them, though
I wish I could say I’ve done it.

Just like the mirror game, our hands
for walkie talkies. It is good,

the connection. Sometimes a truck driver,
but usually loud and bright. We exist

like this for a while beside the water
like two thank-you bags in a zephyr.

There is a storm on the transmission.
I climb the ladder to put the vessels where they belong.

Elle Heedles