Text
She crouches over the river as if
she’s scrying it. Though, between us,
she’s not the one who looks for signs
in passing strangers’ faces,
signs about the length of winter,
or signs she can pretend are code
for “I approve” from a father
dead these past five years.
If she couldn’t hear, I’d ask
the river the same questions I ask
the birds littering my lawn—
about where this is going. Years seem
to pass before she wades back,
and proves she’ll keep returning
by that look on her face,
all earnest, not knowing it. She shows
me a pebble, big as her knuckle,
pink as her tongue, and tells me
Originally published in Frozen Sea (Issue 3, Feb 15, 2024).