(Her river soliloquy)
I forget this river’s oldest name
whether it gets sliced from an echo
or whether it climbs real close holding
the first pale drunkard’s laugh
while drowning. It isn’t written down.
It won’t pull the shore through my eyes
to trade for a story. It just freezes the air
like a voice played among gamblers.
And if its dark name stays here inside
all the sycamores, the willows, herons,
is it less real beside my mother and father?
Night’s river has left nothing for anybody
across this valley and there’s nothing much
in the kitchen except Christmas and eggnog.
And so I sing to this river any name I want.
What else is the naming for?