Three Young Thieves

    with the roar of the river
forever in our ears (arrears)
inducing sleep and silence, the roar
of eternal sleep  .  .  challenging

	From Paterson, William Carlos Williams

These three young girls put leaves
 on the water—taut lips coiled
like a riverbed, brimming
 and awake and flushed with
the joy of erosion. These three
 young thieves all a-shiver:
the clutch of upraised hands
 and opposing elbows, sharper
than all the spring’s givers,
 with the roar of the river

balanced on their flat heads.
 These three young terrors hidden
under grandpa’s bed, giggling
 softly at his little poems, striking 
matches to drop down his rifle’s
 snout; striking against dead fears, 
against the toes of grandpa’s old 
 hunting boots; his fondest words,
sounded just once in all their years, 
 forever in our ears (arrears)

but no more. These three thieves
 put leaves on the water—with unsteady
hands, pried the ice off like skin
 and put leaves on the water, curled
up and overburdened with the
 heavy droplets of spring: the more
the merrier, the more the merrier! 
 And now the new spring thieves that
shiver here have born a wily whore,
 inducing sleep and silence, the roar


of the river that falls like a drum:
 beat, beat, beat, beaten. And
whose wife will I return to?
 The one whose scab itches:
the mutt bringing the news-
 paper in, the thumb for 
the lolling tongue; spending
 the winter at home, knowing
that you are dead and dreaming
 of eternal sleep  .  .  challenging