Why the river called to my only son
I do not know; the river is cold, and
Will not tell me. Maybe it had grown
Weary of the bits of silver it stole
From the mountains, black and dull.
Perhaps it wanted someone warm
To hold to the smooth yellow clay
Of its belly, to tutor in all it knew.
Maybe the silence below its foaming
Skin lured my child, the river eager
In its bed, tearing his clothes, pulling
Him to places where light does not move.
M’ijo, que dulce amargura fuiste a tomar alli?
He cannot answer. What was given to him
The river will never allow my son to yield.
When I shoved my hands to the shoulder,
Clawing my child out by his smooth heel,
We pronounced him invulnerable at last.
