— Bogue Chitto, 1996
It could easily be the rain spreading
on such a yellow, sun-ripe day
or the fish snapping to the surface
to eat the drops like flies,
their mouths almond-shaped and yearning.
Certainly, I could keep the June air
on fire, glowing with motes,
mosquito hawks, the soft French
coming from the woman sunning
naked on the next set of rocks,
the beauty of her tiny son
sliding his toy car along the lines
of her sun-blushed back and thighs,
any of these pleasant and mundane.
But the one thing that sticks is
the way your hips rolled over into waves
as you slid into the river,
the way its water spread
to accept your leaving.