by Katherine Page
a dike is sometimes of igneous rock,
magma hardened after forcing through
fissures reaching air. Once there
it’s stronger than surrounding rocks,
sediment more easily weathered than cooled fire
from the deepest belly. Dikes are also
banks of soil rising
from throwing up wet earth, rising
from this boy saying dyke, shoving hard
against a shiny wood gym floor.
Ask him if he’s heard of the Netherlands
where mounds of peat and sand
redirect rivers, make possible flowers
where fish once swam.
Tell him a dike can be
a ditch or a dam, a bitch or a bam,
a feat of engineering, mighty enough
to push back the sea.
