Water’s Name

The water told me something, and I wanted to repeat it but my mouth is the wrong shape, all full of teeth and pink insides of cheeks ending in these lips, nubile and nimble, but pursing, like a string drawn, sealing in and out saliva and sounds, and I wanted to say the water, what it said, the rhyming words it uttered, muttered over and over on its way down and down, if I could say, could say the words it said the hushing rushing broken by little babbling burbles, burps of sounds, lyric and watery, made of s’s and p’s, like the sound it makes when, salty, it trips over the shore again and again, when it lingers there, rubbing away at the rocks, gently, gently, smoothing them, shush, shush, shush, slurp slosh shush shush and when it streams up and cuts through soil making tittering and tinkering sounds like gurgling gargling, then smashing, shouting, raging, ravishing when it finds an edge and falls over plummeting in a rush, rush, and then, hungry, bashing crashing, a cacophony, as it hits itself, full in the face burying itself, in itself, and shouting all about it, I want to tell you, I do, because it felt really felt like something that should be repeated like something that should have a word, a name.