We find our hands in the riverbed,
my palms the color of the clay
your god built you from and abandoned after
your fingers thin
like switches my grandmother chewed.
In the water
your brothers scrape the rocks with exposed knees
elbow up the tide turning over forearms
that disappear under the rushing waters
with sturgeon and reappear with sharpened sticks
that have frogs screaming at the end of them.
We chew sparks until the sound dulls.
The boys have nothing to laugh about except eachother–
spearfishing is a serious activity,
better left to men with none of that sensitivity
that blushes in the presence of a dying thing
and who have only reverence for hard labor.
We kiss with the sun in our mouths,
hold hands we re-shaped ourselves in the riverbed.
Spearfishing is a brave activity,
the kind you cannot go into
with closed eyes and loose kneecaps,
emerging from the tops of foam-crowned rivulets
weaponless and alone
wondering what merciful god flavored the sun with apple cider.