Siletz River, 1948 My dad thinks the river is his, or he is the river’s. He ferries us upstream on the tide most weekends
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
Already in the drowned field they are fishing out the last of the herd, white necks resting on the trunk of the stunted mulberry