Mud

When I throw it
against the rock
it splatters and splashes,
hisses and sighs.
Leaves its mark.
I sink my feet deep into the earth
at the bottom of the river. It feels
like clay, swallowing me until I’m
caked-in halfway up my legs.
Unable to move, I reach down and dig out a handful
of cold, soft mud.
I throw it back into the water.
Its splashes create brown dots on my white T-shirt.
I pass it back and forth between my hands,
sloshing and plopping it as it runs through my fingers.
I squeeze it and it dries like a dishrag,
brown water dripping
back into the running river.
I look at you downstream and wonder if you feel it,
the part of it that is me, flowing past your legs.
I glance back at the rock; it’s covered in splats of mud.
I throw what’s left in my hand
to create one more spot, to hear one more sandy thud.
Then I pierce the river with my hands.
The cold water washes away what’s left of the earth.
I remove my shirt and unbury my feet.
I call to you
sitting on your log. I reach down as you look up.
I playfully hurl a ball of mud at the water in your direction.
Its splashes create brown dots on your white T-shirt.
You smile and remove it. Standing up, your feet sink
slowly into the soft clay that lies below us as you slink
your way back upstream.
I firmly pack a clump of clay in my hands.
We throw and thrust as the earth thwacks and thuds against
your chest, my thigh, your throat, my chin.
Minutes later, we are brown and red.
Spotted with silt, covered in welts.
I hurl one last ball of it at your back.
Then I stop because it stings us both.
We lay down to rest as the rapid stream
runs around us.
And as our hands touch under frigid water,
it all comes clean, the sand, the clay, the mud.
but as I stand to leave the water,
I still feel you in my legs,
my shorts forever spotted with your stain.