Letting things flow

We lived on opposite sides of the same town, you on top, from which a river surged, and I on the bottom, which was dry land. For some reason unknown, the river wouldn’t journey down, but instead, resided in the higher sphere of our town. We met at an assembly and immediately connected; we approached each other and held hands. We decided we needed to construct an artificial stream to run into the lower town, and then we’d all live as the same. We dug for months and saw our progress: the canal growing, and nothing deterred us, not even the stares of those around us.

One day the water surged, and I was afraid we’d have no control over where it’d course, but you stilled me by saying, “Let things flow,” and I did. The river gushed towards directions that, at least, I was pleased with, and you said you were. For a moment we were inseparable, but one day you returned upriver to your home and slept with a politician.

The next day you telegrammed me, saying we should build a dam to preserve water, and I, because I loved you, feigned agreement. Today, on your side of town, where the Gods and officials sleep, is an elaborate garden named after you. There, the pastures never brown. Down where I live, with the have-nots, a meager stream pours. I taste from that stream, at times, when I think of you.