the river
by Kathy Nelson
again and again my mother
her birthday her death day
every year
she pronounced me strange for asking
say
why there were no photographs
of her wedding to my father
dwelling on the past
or why after he died all the photos of him
disappeared
as though
he never existed as though
I myself should never have been born
the swollen current sounds like distant traffic
the swallow and slosh
near the bank
on the few boulders left unsubmerged
geese groom
they turn their elegant necks
to the undersides of wings
opened like blades
bare-chested boys in yellow and orange kayaks
whoop and wave their paddles
geese boys float together downriver
beyond my commentary
the strangeness of a river
turned brown by summer rains
the unfathomable silences
between mothers and daughters
around the bend the boys bellow
a heron
or a colony of turtles
if they petition their earthly gods
if they beckon thus
the spirits of animals is it
because they grieve
but have no words for it
