After Jen Bervin / After Quan Barry
River spidering across the wall, sailing through the air. River flashing with silver sequins fastened to sunbeams. River always in pieces, a torn ribbon streaming everywhere. River carving out a canyon through the years, seen from a sudden grassy overlook, an old bridge, a new shoreline, endlessly crossing and recrossing our lives. River this winter with sixteen eagles alert and searching. River unfrozen and pooling around the ankles of trees in springtime, daring us closer. River asleep inside the black night like a spent lover, dreaming of being a chandelier of rain, first velvet wet drops on bare skin. Go, go on. Conveyor belt of clouds, destroyer and preserver of towns, longest breath of the earth, tell us what floating means to you. Some trees are weeping, river. Speak of all you carry and carry off in river song and river silence. Be horse, be ferry, carry us from now to next to. River, I’m done with fading shadows. Give me daylight broken and scattered across your fluid transparent face, come meet me with the moon and the stars running and tumbling along your sides. River swinging open like a gate to the sea, time’s no calendar of months, you say, but water in the aftermath of light. Your drifting cargo tells us everything arrives from far away and long ago and ends in the body, boat of heartache and ecstasy we pilot, in quest of passage also. River we call Mississippi or Mekong, sing us forth to nowhere but here, with your perfect memory be our flood.
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