A Second Chance

Wrote about her once.
Quick words, scared onto the page.
left her on the edge of a river.
skirts hiked up past her knees,
Didn't say how far. Didn't say:
past her thighs, past her waist,
up to her shoulders. Exposing
breast, belly, those things.
Mentioned the swirl of her skirt
around her shoulders, tightening
at the neck. Blinding her. No
way she could use her arms.
Couldn't see a thing. Nothing.

A second chance is needed here.
She needs to walk away instead
of back into, she needs to already
know what was not safe.

The water for instance.
In the water or on the water.
She needs to stick
to the hills, not the hills
themselves but the swell of
merciful rising.

She needs to go to the curves of
the land, to the declivities where
water waits to be discovered.
A different kind of water.

She needs to find the ancient
glad path, the path
covered over,
waiting to be cleared.
The path through meadows
void of shame, through
gold shadows, not the color of
bruises, not the color of law.

The path through hills blossoming grace,
safe from the flat cold
strike of a false solid shore
flanking bitter water flowing dry,
pretending to slack thirst,
pretending to cleanse.

A second chance is needed
to get it right.