The boy is at the bottom of the river.
Though they carried his body out,
fashioned a boat of their ponderous grief
to hold him, still:
the boy is at the bottom of the river.
No release, no resurrection from
this star-swallowing water completely.
The body taken, yes.
The soul lifted to higher ground, yes.
But always a part of him bound to the rocks below.
Always something remains, purling over the stones.
Listen—you can hear it,
under the night’s code of crickets
and clang of atoms:
the river calling him by name.
His heart singing into the rills.
His parents’ endless keening.
The silver fishes of the world
swim right through it.
Copyright © 2003 Melissa Montimurro. All Rights Reserved.