Towards the Mouth of the River

triangles of blue on my face:

the fins of a salmon dying between

two rocks

//

light is my grandmother

closing her hands

pleading in air

thicker near the water

//

I’m a doe in my mother’s house

the water covering my hind legs completely

I drink from the deep end

of her body

//

I turn back into a river when I leave

step onto the porch

flood the yard

water never forgets

it’s water

//

whirling disease causes

some trout to chase their own tails

before they die

the fish disappearing

into little orange orbs

//

I’m circling this graveyard afraid

to walk the gravel road between the stones

//

I tell the light

of summers it left me quiet

holding a wound under a rusted faucet

“Towards the Mouth of the River” first appeared in American Poetry Review (APR).