River of the flooded banks, of water muddied
………..to mahogany like over-steeped tea. River

where, come summer, my sister & I would float
………..our child-bodies over the deep place

by the bend, reach our feet down
………..to find the sandy bottom and fail.

River: fastened between banks by piles of shells
………..the otters left: stellular, gleaming pale

against the storm-flattened grass. River like
………..a steeple intent on its elsewhere, river giving

its name to the dead-end road, dividing
………..what we thought we knew

from what we never could. Riven, rising
………..all March, and then

Easter, when the sky held, the rains
………..didn’t come, and we were given

the old story to hold on our tongues: the one
………..of the stone, rolled away

from the tomb, and the woman
………..who stayed to weep. Years later, a different

version: when she finds him, she kisses
………..his feet. Come summer, our own feet would blur

to ghosts when we swam, blanched then vanished
………..into the river’s dim. Not quite

afraid, we’d draw our knees to our chests
………..where breasts were beginning to rise, until

we could see again what we half-thought
………..we’d lost, returned to us

because we’d asked. But before then
………..it was Easter, too cold to surrender

our bodies to water, and we did not know yet
………..how to give away pieces of ourselves, how

to play the old game of hide and hope
………..to be found.