The traveling song is difficult to whistle. There are a lot of minor keys.
I heard it near the ocean. Or a river or a puddle. On an island. On sand and rocks. Under locust trees.
It came from behind me. It was a woman. With wet heat breath that
clung like dirt on sweat. Her breath was dirt on sweat that stung like a
bee and my skin swelled. Her breath was my swollen skin.
The traveling song is impossible like going back in time. You could kill your grandfather or see the death of the sun. A giant sharp tooth fish is the traveling song. I saw it on a hook on a postcard on a thumbtack on the wall.
It will rain today.
The river will overflow and fish will strain against the current,
clinging to roots knotted under the bank. Their bellies will swell and
birth fingers and wrists.
They will surface and crawl, like spiders.
Moving slowly through the sun-bleached grass, their gills will blossom.
The fish will slide under our feet and we will stumble as they carry us like kings.