River to River

          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.