THERE IS A NAKED MAN IN THE CHARLES RIVER P O E T RY
O w e n E lp hi ck and a happy darkness descends upon the city. His backpack lies in the rushes and the water cups his flesh. Passersby on the trail ask him if it is cold. It is February. The people on a nearby dock have their phones out. There is a naked man in the Charles River and the grime of a thousand wrappers dances in his pores. He is not swimming to the other side, there is no one waiting for him there. Instead, he treads, shoulders rippling. It has been half an hour now, and his body floats, invisible beneath the water. A river is a kind of body. We all need to be held by some body. Somebody help. He is calling to a group of teens. Will you help me? They go to the edge. Please, he begs, please come help me. Can’t you swim in on your own? they ask. You’re treading water fine. A body goes into a river and disappears. There is a naked man in the Charles River, and the river will not 69
