Thetis Looks Back

Why the river called to my young 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 against the smooth yellow clay
Of its belly, someone to tutor in all it knew.
Maybe it was the silence beneath the foaming

Skin that lured my child, always so anxious.
Eager to rest in its bed, where the sun
Had not moved for many cycles of years.

M’ijo, que dulce amargura fuiste a tomar alli?
He cannot answer, he cannot speak. What was given
My son, the river made him promise not to yield.

When I put my hands to the elbow; when I pulled my son
Up by the heel, we pronounced him invulnerable at last.

Keep Me in the Loop!

How This Works...


W. Sheridan Bradford writes horror (All Hallows, The Buzzkill) the old west (Rimfires, Sevenfold), contemporary western fiction (Born Again), science fiction (The Wreck of the Molon Labe), and is the author of numerous short stories and poems. Usually found in: Colorado, New Mexico, or Texas.

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