In Which the River Takes

When approaching a river, she told me
to always look down, to watch out

for chunks of rough rock that could
catch a toe & hurl me to the bank,

rolling the small body I was into
a current that didn’t know what it meant

to be flesh, what it meant to lose
& grieve. My mother aged near

the river, made a home beyond
the pines, watching her toes as she

stepped through thorns, deadly night-
shade’s purple bells. Year by year

she slipped into a drinking darkness,
lost in effluvium. In deference

to royalty, peasants look at their feet.
Out here, rivers reign, risen waters

command reverence each spring.
I loved my mother’s river, even

in April fury, even when I couldn’t
say it. When she died, she died close

to the water. I stepped to her bed
& heard roaring depths. I saw her

washed away. I didn’t reach out. I stared
at my feet, scared I too would drown.