For Three Whose Reflex Was Yes

Nobody I know is a god. A mother and son   

fall into the river's million hands, the river's   

smash and grab. They go under, climb the ropeless   

water up, wave, open their mouths and scream   

wet silences as they slide back under.   

A man jumps in to save them, leaves the edge   

as a needle into the river's muddy sinews, a woman   

jumps in to save his vanishing and the mother   

and son and is stripped by the flood, her pants   

drowning right beside her, another man jumps in   

to save them all and a woman jumps in after him   

to save them all plus one, cars arrive and people   

get out and leap into the river, the river's being filled   

with whatever's in their pockets and their hands   

and their eyes, with nickels and dollar bills   

and bibles and sunsets, the beautiful brush strokes   

of this beautifully dying day, people pile   

like a river inside the river, they keep coming   

and diving in, they keep feeding their breath   

to the water, which is less, which is thinned,   

until the mother and son rise on a mound   

of strangers and dead, the sun warming them, blessing   

their faces slowly dry.