the words I used to bring you back
after you had pushed off and out
into the still of the river mouth
called by the open sea, and it seemed
that return was impossible.
Did you know that water can fill your chest
and float you like a bottle? Did you know
that I followed the animal’s tracks
as far as they went, and only prayed
when they disappeared?
I only pretend to know the difference
between prayer and magic.
But I joined my hands and moved my lips
and the air stirred and was still
and by accident or fate
the right patterns were made.
Somehow, surrounded by so much malice
you kept your calm.
Somewhere, during the journey back
I became your mother.
Which of us really understands
how these things work?
In time, we’ll both stop dreaming
of the things that bedevil us.
You, of the tracks. Me, of the water.
The tracks disappeared.
The water gave you back to me.
