Down River
Río Grande, Argentina
Mia C. Anderson
Swiftly, all things unhappen. Over and over.
Shards of blueglass stir—are stirred—till smooth as girls’ wrists. Smoother
than the prominent ribs of the stray dogs
who follow as you walk, there, along the river,
who stubbornly worship you—scattered like shells left at low-tide.
Somebody’d better spit in that river, what does it know about living?
The river didn’t see that old man in town—the one in the tuxedo,
selling a dozen eggs on the hood of a wheelless car.
The river wasn’t in the bright cafe at 1 a.m.
when the pregnant woman bolted in, sobbing and cursing at the handsome waiter.
The river didn’t see how nervously he ignored her—and how her silk-sleeved shoulder
grabbed ahold of the light—just as the owner shut the door right on it.
The river didn’t get between that. The river couldn’t get her drunk or drunker after that.
The river, she had her own ways.
She saw mostly the silver underwings of herons and falcons as they stalked her,
and the sprawling glimmer of the thick-lipped trout.
The hooks and heads of fishermen slumping over her as though in prayer.
And she waved in whatever shimmer she could, decorating herself.
Or else she’d lend her beauty out
to the swimming girls who’d steep in her, lifting—over and over—again and again—
the sudden glistening of their nakedness. The heavy jewelry of their wet-black hair.
The river only knew the calm appetite of the passerine as he rode down darkness to sip her.
And the old man walking into her night after night—right into her coldness.
And the teenaged boy from Ushuaia—the one who disappeared in her.
The fog lights of the very last search boat on its very last search for him—
returning at last to the solid dock,
to the cupped-glow of the cabins, the sore joy of the saloons.
And all the while, she held that boy, pickled deep inside her.
Sitting, swelling on her floor for days, weeks. All sulk. Too sad to float.
Till finally, he began to forgive it all—and soften into a dough,
then a pale gelatin—a compromise between himself and that river—
then a silvery-violet yolk. And then, just a handful of opal bubbles,
the froth of him drifting—gleefully now—ashore.
And on that shore, the river saw the plastic grocery bags
swooning dumbly toward her—bloated and pale—making their way
half-sunk inside her, and her unable to let them go.
The wire fence wading coarsely in her,
and the concrete slabs of some bad idea—remaining, clinging.
They go to her, fall apart in her.
Something in them knows that beauty.
And can’t help but just sit right down in it.
And why should she be left alone, the way goes about.
Let her take them in—the earth is tired and full.
The stray dog falls asleep in the road.