My dad thinks the river is his, or he is the river’s.
He ferries us upstream on the tide most weekends after the war,
his knee on the tiller, that half-moon sailing from the quick of his thumb
as he slips his tackle into the current.
He lifts one finger to his lips to say silence … Continue Reading ››
like water—what it was—to enter—unprepared—the tide moves left—there is nothing to bring to it—I could not gather your things—some things broke instead—a phone crushed in your hand—we are always found holding—the body changes the water that holds it—the waters spill out and drown into what we … Continue Reading ››
Already in the drowned field they are fishing out
the last of the herd, white necks resting on the trunk
of the stunted mulberry they stood under during rains,
its red and black berries just inches from their lips
as if their appetites reached in that direction.
In life their flood went downward: into grass, the shear
of each green blade … Continue Reading ››
