I once lived in a valley of victims.
A man who'd lost his arm to a thresher
tucked the empty sleeve into itself
like a new kind of blossom and passed by.
He smiled at me, glad in the secret of the wound.
With his one arm he waved
to the scalpless woman, the leprous grandfather,
the boy of mine born without a tongue.

I used to wonder if the water
rearranged us for defeat. I noticed,
those few times out of town, others running
headlong and firm, as if the bad were not
right in front of them. I noticed
laughter unfrightened by the corner ahead
or the dark, swirling pool. In my valley
the drowned come back to us in all their wet clothes.
They go house to house singing on the lawns,
begging for jackets, a single embrace.

I left the day our daughter, bleeding from the ear,
led us upstream, into a narrow range.
We found animals indifferent and harmless.
We found humans with all their limbs
and faculties. Though I am not sure,
I believe evil follow gravity,
grace brims through ever thinning layers
of air. I will never again lead my family
to a place so low we rejoice in what disappears.
I will live uncertainly without disease
or verdict. I will teach my son
the sign for tomorrow.