Three Revisions

Revision: Water

In the old days,

unlike some writers I know,

Water was usually open

to a vigorous edit.

When it fell heavily

in sad, sodden sheets, you

could say, Um, okay, Water,

that was a little much. And

all the droplets would glom

into a mournful puddle,

soaking in your feedback.

Next time it would

maybe bring a cheerful

mist, refreshing spray, offer

a thirst-quenching shower,

a heartfelt storm equipped

with chest-thumping roars

and bright crackling bolts

to ignite our ga-ga souls

before rushing downstream

to pummel a heap of ancient rocks

into soft, fine sand, finally

whipping itself into floating

islands of cotton candy,

sweetening the blue.

But Water these days resists

rinsing gently to effect a clean,

drip-dry scene. No more trimming

gratuitous tides, sinking into

marshes to rephrase its course.

Instead, it whitecaps, eddies, crashes,

gurgles and swells. It would swallow

your beach, drown your cows, throw

a party in your basement and steal

your car (with you at the wheel). What

gives? A few versions back, as I recall,

we were pretty convincing when we

deemed the story bloated, the language

soppy. Our comments bubbles pulsed

with persuasive pleas: those unnecessarily

complex wetlands had to go.

Revision: Personal History

He wanted to talk.

I heard him out.

She chastised me.

I bowed my head.

They asked to stay.

I ushered them in.

I stuck to routine.

Cooked simply and well.

Watered the plants.

Let bygones be.

I rose above sarcasm.

Bore a thick skin.

I listened. Held

back. Eschewed

lateness. Honoured

even modest promises.

I read the papers,

respected my chores,

wasted no food, called

home once a week.

Revision: Language

Mommy, you said it

again. I did? Shit! Sorry

Kid. Oops, I mean, Darn it—

Crap—Drat—Dang—Frig—

Nuts—Dammit all to—

Oh. My. Good. God.

Bollocks. But we’re not

British, so that’s more like

a toy word for us. Crud?

Really? That’s every ounce

as crude as sh—

Okay, relax. I wasn’t going

to say it, I swear. You’re

telling me your father and I

frickin’ both swear more

than we think? Holy Toledo.

God almighty—tabernacle—

Jesus, Mary & Joseph. Matka

Boska. Yikes, holy crumb, that one,

Kid, is worst of all. Huh? You

want to know why? For Christ’s

sake, cyclop’s tears, serpent’s

fangs, leprechaun’s curses, fairy’s

wingnuts, glory be, Medusa’s head,

Saint Brigid’s acorn, ring around

the rosie, elves’ earwax, bloody hell, Lord

have mercy, Zeus on a pitchfork, how

the bleeding Eff do I explain that?