What the Water Keeps

I did not drown you.

The water did that,

patient the way water is,

filling the shape of you

the way it fills anything

that stops moving long enough.

I only watched.

There's a difference between

holding someone under

and simply not

reaching in.

The pond behind the house

has always known this distinction.

It has taken things before

a dog, once.

Whatever the Hendersons'

boy did in the summer

that one one discusses.

The water doesn't keep secrets.

It keeps everything -

suspended, slowed,

preserved in that green dark

like a museum

no one wants to visit.

I go there sometimes

to check on you.

The water shows me my own face

laid over yours,

and i like to see

how well we've merged -

two reflections

that used to be separate things,

in the same still surface.

Someone will find you eventually.

The water always gives things back

when it's finished with them,

bloated with whatever truth

it's been steeping you in.

Until then -

I'll keep coming to the edge.

I'll keep looking down.

I'll keep telling myself

that watching

isn't the same as

doing.