All month I watched over my father
where he lay, like the old river he was.
His mind meandered where it would,
braiding around me, whoever I was.
I stood there, rooted.
He doubled back to damn the daughter
cut off, the oxbow lake
who still owed him grandchildren.
Where was the river that used to bear
the gods of sun and tumbleweed
on its broad back,
from one snag to another?
I hugged the muddy bank,
I, his daughter, the one
whose leaves grew leathery
and poisonous, the mountain laurel.
2
In the dry season,
the leaves grew careless,
drawing near the fire.
Where the traveller warmed himself last night,
the clearing has been left to smolder–
so a man would journey all this way
just to lay his hand to the trunk
of the tree I'd become.
To brush his lips against the bark
and claim he felt a heartbeat,
these leaves rustling in breeze
or betrayal. Something stood still.
The duck was stuck on her nest,
the drake nowhere to be seen,
now that she sat brooding.
How he had chased her once,
