The Drowning

they keep pulling him up
from the bottom of the Red River
in stop-action or slow-motion
and replay the splash
blooming around his hips

they correct his dive
restore the promise
of his form, each movement
clear in the instant of falling

the moment reversed
they reel him up
to where he's still
sitting on the bank

mother covers her bare scalp
with hair torn by its roots
screams sucked back
into her mouth become

soft syllables again
her shredded clothes
re-woven   the table set
for his return
 
                2

it's that time of year
and all that's left
a cool remembering
again he's drowning

and the Red River
opens wide to take him in
mother rooted to the bank
we're waiting supper for you

bread and milk lie
heavy on the table
where sisters stand
strange to one another

they turn their backs
and climb the stairs
to narrow rooms
 
it's that time of year
nudging memories of
his face streaked with summer

murmurs at evening meals
walks along the river
with its glowing spine
                                                                in this
house where
no one survives love
darkness opens like a white door
 
                3

summer nights we'd sit on the back veranda
planing down the hours with small talk
stories flowed in a spill of old pleasures
sweet and tart and light on the tongue
the air was fresh  the weather excellent
the room radiant with the dead.

 

© Ruth Daigon