photo: ralph murre
by
Karla Huston
It
was just there:
the
water and the falling
music
of it. I was in need
of
that sort of rush,
a
kind of deathsong baptism
like
I had the day I drove across
the
Holy Island Bridge
with
an urge to accelerate, aim
for
the side, dive over
the
abutment and rush past
every
temptation.
I
simply closed my eyes
and
mouth and let the water
take
me, the cold cocoon of it
tumbling,
throwing me
against
everything
that
had ever gone wrong.
