WEBVTT

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I'll read two more poems.

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The river that's
mentioned in this poem

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is the Parana River which
runs from Buenos Aires up

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into Paraguay.

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At the Landing.

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A few days before
I die, I'll stand

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near a river that runs a
thousand miles with no bridge,

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thinking back on today, on
the greenish dogwood petals

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descending in the woods,
while my husband speaks

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of a friend already only
a shadow in conversation.

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On that future day,
I'll see clouds

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beyond the transparency of my
hands held to the sky's light,

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knowing that if I
undressed in the street

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children would see each
other through my skin.

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I feel nostalgia for the
old woman I'm growing into.

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I'll rise stiffly from
a bench on the long pier

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many years from now
recalling the dogwood,

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recalling myself like
this at the window.

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Then I'll watch for the
ferry, although no friend ever

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gets off.

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I'll have buried them all,
choosing in exile in this town

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because the streets
smell of dying greenery

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and once as a girl I dreamed
homes more glamorous than snow.

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One day I'll enter
the custom shed

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with the women who
work across the river

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at the rail of the ferry.

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As the far shore rises
up so blue they'll

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see me touch my heart sadly
then fall backwards on the deck,

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mistaking their shocked
faces for clouds

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gathered over my last
glimpse of the sun.

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