Confluence

Here, at this half-ass state park without a sign, 
              with its cracked concrete bench and triangle of dying 
cottonwoods, the Missouri joins the Mississippi, 
              meeting not like a ballet, or a twisting 
of silk scarves, but maybe like construction workers, shaking 
              hands before a building forever half-built. 
And what is there to do now but love this unfinished work 
              of the river, carrying everything it has ever been 
given: snow-melt streams like a cold bandana circling
              its neck, shreds of styrofoam cooler catching 
in its teeth, sturgeon eggs blooming with their translucent 
              tails, nitrates, and phosphates, and soil glittering 
with bone, and this single mountain dew bottle 
              eddying in a green-tinged foam, and the ashes 
of Oceti, reddening in all of our throats. I sit with my knees 
              tucked to my chest, listen to the ducks call 
each other from either side of what will be 
              the same water, and River, you and I both know 
that despite your dams, you will go on
              to grow deadly algae in the Gulf, to feed rich 
alluvial plains, shelter alligators and hellbenders and mudpuppies, 
              to have done to you and to do the most beautiful 
and terrible things. We know the word end 
              is never an end, but always a mouth instead.