MAY 29, 2014 by MICHAEL SHEWMAKER
She hears a voice across the water.
And weeping to remember, gowned
in gray, she can’t recall her daughter.
Her candle wavers on the altar.
They say that she was never found.
She hears a voice. Across the water,
the trees harbor a darker weather.
An oarless rowboat runs aground
and drifts again. And like her daughter,
she wades into the drowsy river—
stone-pocketed, without a sound.
She hears a voice beneath the water
that lingers like a lover’s. Laughter
almost—but softer, colder, drowned
by the shy whimpering of a daughter
who understands that what comes after
is like the weeping of a wound.
She hears the voice. Her only daughter.
Their bodies blossom in the water.