I am the woman who carried
people across the Mississippi
before the first bridge. She rowed
her canoe through Minnesota cold.
I go back and forth, as we all do,
simply stitching the torn fabric
together to carry out the task
for a bit longer. The hidden flesh
and icy waters wait where they have
always waited. But remember how
we darned holes in worn stockings,
weaving the threads to last awhile?