A river floats inside me, goes up and down, heavy and light, loud and silent, rumbles and flows. Listen, the crimson river wants to flow out.
The river is leaking on that corner, you can hear its dripping sound at night if you press your ear on my chest or if you swim in darkness.
A tiny stream runs through the city’s crevices, pulsating. Everybody ignores its presence and bloody smell. The stream keeps palpitating.
A ferrous thick ribbon comes out from each one of us. It coils round us bonding us together in a liquid embrace. You can hear its runny sound.
On humid days, our quivering ruby ribbon rises towards hurricanes, tornadoes and volcanic clouds. It shines and flows, it soars and leaks.
When we kiss, it boils. When we touch, it whispers. When we embrace, it mixes. When we speak, it flows. Our rivers flow. Together. Deep down.
This prose poem is the second of a few by the extraordinarily talented Mina Polen that will appear on this site over the coming weeks. It was originally posted in 6 tweets through Mina’s Twitter account, @minafiction.