The River

I’m taking a pause from the person I’ve been
for most of my life, and starting to enter
the man I’ve been only occasionally, even
the man I’ve only pretended to be—
a stranger I’ve hardly imagined.

My wife has decided to do the same.
We’ve agreed to try out our new selves, and meet
back here in a few days, to talk things over,
perhaps make some permanent adjustments.

Our children might be strangers soon.
Our old dog already ignores us.

The river that runs by our house has been rising
for weeks now. We’ve been cleaning out our closets,
tossing things into the swirl:
old books we thought we should love, classics
that only bored us, as they’ve bored everyone
for centuries. Photo albums full of squinting strangers,
dress shoes that pinched, overstuffed pillows
that made our necks stiff. And then, one morning,

a herd of deer tried to swim across to our side.
So many hungry animals have been swept away.

Even our faces in the mirror seem
to have been swept away now, by that rising river
and by our yearning. I can only be naked,
though I’m trying to locate the clothes I wore
when I was a man who sported perfect teeth
and a full head of hair, the kind who tells the truth
when he lies—or vice-versa, I can’t remember now,
though I’m sure it must matter to someone.