River
By Greg Miller
A loon dives in the swollen river.
It followed the river first.
The town lies between it and canals
Diverted from the river.
The beak of the loon is orange,
Its wingspan broader than a duck’s.
My father’s legs were swollen.
His once thin ankles barely fit his shoes.
His heart no longer fed his body.
Toxins and liquids began to drown him.
His silly doctors didn’t see
He couldn’t breathe.
My father took me to the river.
We fished for bass and bluegill,
Sunfish, cats. Fat suckers,
Their lips like suction cups,
We put back. Too many little bones
To catch and make you choke.
I no longer want to go fishing.
I don’t even want to play
In the water. The boat
Here has no oars, the current
Is too swift. In the dark, teenagers
Discover their body together.
The body feels like a prison.
I kneel by my father’s stapled body.
He suctions thick liquid from his lungs.
He coughs to clear them; it hurts.
He wants more air. He wants
To live, the heart’s valve's parachutes
Opening with oxygen to feed
The body’s healing. A tube
Empties the chest cavity. He excretes
Liquids and poisons.
His shocked kidneys come to life.
His stunned heart beats. His lung
Opens again. He eats. He poops.
He walks. He wants to go home.
On the phone, I catch my sister
Taking him home. It’s snowing.
It’s cold. My brother and mother
Help him climb the stairs.
I walk down the path
By the shallow canal. I see
A falcon fishing. The power plant
Breathes steam. I hope
The wind won’t singe me.
I come to the falls
Where a little dog
Barks and bounces hello. His owner
Smiles and greets me. In the church
Of Saint Laurence I kneel, I
Give thanks, my heart jumps.
Copyright Credit: Greg Miller, "River" from Watch. Copyright © 2009 by Greg Miller. Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press.
Source: Watch (The University of Chicago Press, 2009)