.
Water must flood
the mind, as in certain diseases, the walls
between the cells of memory dissolve, blur
into a single stream of voices and faces.
I don’t know any more about this river or if
it can be cleaned of its tender and broken histories—
a tide of voices.
And this is how the dead
rise to us, transformed: wet and singing,
the tide of voices pearling in our hands.
—Lynda Hull
.
