I'll read two more poems.
The river that's mentioned in this poem
is the Parana River which runs from Buenos Aires up
into Paraguay.
At the Landing.
A few days before I die, I'll stand
near a river that runs a thousand miles with no bridge,
thinking back on today, on the greenish dogwood petals
descending in the woods, while my husband speaks
of a friend already only a shadow in conversation.
On that future day, I'll see clouds
beyond the transparency of my hands held to the sky's light,
knowing that if I undressed in the street
children would see each other through my skin.
I feel nostalgia for the old woman I'm growing into.
I'll rise stiffly from a bench on the long pier
many years from now recalling the dogwood,
recalling myself like this at the window.
Then I'll watch for the ferry, although no friend ever
gets off.
I'll have buried them all, choosing in exile in this town
because the streets smell of dying greenery
and once as a girl I dreamed homes more glamorous than snow.
One day I'll enter the custom shed
with the women who work across the river
at the rail of the ferry.
As the far shore rises up so blue they'll
see me touch my heart sadly then fall backwards on the deck,
mistaking their shocked faces for clouds
gathered over my last glimpse of the sun.