Bodies of Water
By Magdalena Ball
Published 8 December 2023
i.
We are water. We are moving, being altered.
Days pass quickly, information is everywhere
and nowhere. If you catch me you’ll see
I’m still running. It’s urgent now.
Water circulates, a global conveyor belt
between ocean currents.
Exchange of moisture, atmosphere to cavern,
a body in motion, sinuous, like your body.
What’s in your glass is 4.5 billion years old
give or take, delivered to Earth
by planetesimals beyond the frost line.
If you’re thirsty it’s still free, for now.
ii.
When you heat the earth more evaporates
and more falls, flood and drought, melting ice
sea rise. All stories are water stories.
Remembering the way we woke early
back when time was expansive. A collective
memory. Irreversible succession. Undulations.
Expectation scented the air like a promise
nothing would change: river, water, land.
Promises broken, like marriage vows,
agreements, accords, bodies.
iii.
Time is speeding up. There is evidence.
Today is the shortest day ever.
1.59 milliseconds less than yesterday.
All of which is to say
water is on the move, altering Earth’s inertia
another second of melting, adding up
to a lifetime, a generation, a species.
We are changing the atmosphere.
Is it something to be proud of: these big hungry
primate brains and all they are capable of?
Cerebral matter does not fossilise
it deteriorates, leaving no trace.
I want to forgive, but I too am a mother.
All this rogue growth, how we reach so hard
stuffing every toy into curious mouths
wanting to be first in the queue, belly full.
Heads you lose. Wind against water, waves
beating the shore, each break slightly different.
There is no such thing as silence, no time, we are
here now, making a story that will be told
to someone or something, phase change,
the tipping point, if telling survives.