by Josiah Newcomb
A river-girl lowers her tributary
lips to taste the mountain run-off
her hands cup the sweet water
but he pursues endlessly like driving rain,
the khan whose hands have spilled blood
like a child spills water.
Across the steppe they ride
in the Bowl of Heaven,
and wildflowers are crushed under hooves.
Shepherds, wise Arabs, Italian merchants, steppe-folk
watch them pass on the Silk Road.
He has rightfully stolen his bride,
taken her to the domed yurt of felt and rare wood.
He dropped her in the communal dirt of his home,
and carefully watered his horse.
The river-girl waters the earth but
her tears evaporate, wisp through
the tünduk, the opening
to the white eddies of heaven.
Her mountain spring bursts,
the might of the avalanche
coursing through streams
the Bowl of Heaven fills
and all perish.
But listen closely to the tides,
dip your fingers and taste the water.
It is salty
as her losses,
warm
as her lifeblood,
and that is why we call her
Issyk-Kul
Josiah Newcomb is an English and creative writing major. He grew up in Asia and in Europe. He plans to teach high school English upon graduation.