At The River of Crocodiles

by Zan Ross

Let's say

a woman goes to the river,

a basket on her head full of clothes.

She is here to wash — flakes of skin,

semen, blood,

faeces, urine dried in the fibers.

She comes to this same place morning,

night, draws water to cook, bathe

on the bank of The River of Crocodiles.

She is small, like a child, her skin

soft as tropical earth, her hair in a

plait to her waist. She walks in the

sound of water over stones, to the

sound of her own heart, her hips

breaking open to the rhythm of claw and

tail mudfalls. She washes with one

eye closed, slapping against a stone

hunched in the mud.

Let's say

he sees her come to the river, smells

her brittle bones, her softness to

the steel of his hide. Their need

the same — desire each morning,

each evening when she comes,      leaves

gifts, hopes      to lure

a child into her body.

He spirals toward her.      She turns,

one eye closed, then looks to the river.

He is gentle, mounts

her three, four times. Semen drips

onto rock, and he knows, she knows.

Let's say

six months later the mid–wife will not

come. Her husband must help her deliver.

She is ripe fruit, splits when

the child slides onto earth in a fall

of grace, his partial hide scraping the

man's hands as he holds it.      She

lifts her head, is silent

at evidence incontrovertible.

Let's say

a man goes down to the river.

He carries a woman who has just

given birth. He carries a mis–

shapen child.      He tosses the

woman into the water, holds her head

until she drowns, her long hair trailing

current. Face up, her body flows

toward the sea.

The mis–shapen child is pitched into the

current, but      swims away. The father rises from

The River of Crocodiles, closes

his mouth full of teeth on the man's torso,

pulls him under and rolls,      rolls.

Can you say

what we know about these people,

what you know about these people?

If

I am telling you the truth;      if

you believe my story,

they are dead.

Because they belonged to my village,

we no longer go to The River of Crocodiles to

swim, wash, conceive,      though

water is our solace in this too hot place,

the river      is our desire.