I turn and don’t expect my mother’s face
I ask how did you enter this poem
she says it wasn’t easyshe is dressed in my favorite horse-print silk sheath
and dripping lake water
says she wore it to trick my loverI want to ask how could you but instead
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Lisa Edi / Connected Archives
It is no River Jordan that flows here
between the railroad tracks and the back porch.
It’s a canal. Not unlike my mother:
low as it want to be and fullest when
it rains. Existing for however long
without a name, and flowing
under a timber bridge that we built. We built that.
Isn’t that our story? To be denied
the beginning. I cross the bridge to shoot
a sapling bow my grandfather has carved.