I can never see that river again. I should have guessed
the last time would be the last time. Walking there
I smelled the riverbed, its desperate stench
released by the sun bleaching it as it does bone.
Down the solitary road began our village.
Feral cats spread eye infections among themselves.
Rye stalks shuddered in their drought. Little beasts sipped
from the river’s shallow veins. Defenseless arm,
my grandfather told her, you are almost finished
running, eternal rest is nearly
here. Already ants have moved in to feast
on the cabbage butterflies pesticided into this
shallow grave. Pale wings torn through, and through
again, to nothing. And for the last time
he called to her: Biała moja— rzeczka moja— Biała moja—
Miriam Milena lives in Seattle. She has been the recipient of a Brooklyn Poets fellowship.
