It was this same river,
though further upstream,
that swallowed you whole last spring.
Summer sun has made it lean again,
and it does not look so violent
as I remember.
That day was all motion.
one mass of water
stampeding down its course
ripping at each bank
crashing rocks on branches on boulders
roaring, roaring mixing with your screams
and me on shore
shouting into nothing but air
the bank unraveling under my feet
and my own soul unraveling
But today is calm.
Each ripple licks the bank with
almost motherly care, like our old cat
bathing her single kitten.
The gate man is signaling.
She leaves in three minutes, he says.
I’m looking for some sign of you,
some leftover trace,
but all I see is a robin
ailing towards the south.
Winter will be here soon.
There is nothing to do
– Rebecca Balcarcel
Source: Palabras in Each Fist, by Rebecca Balcarcel (Pecan Grove Press, 2010, 69 p.)