AQUA FAMILIA

AQUA FAMILIA

1

My mother's hair was black

the sheen of night moon

on the Mississippi

splayed wide

beside the hospital in Memphis

where she bore me

into this world

with the help of a pair of stainless forceps

and a doctor she swears looked just like young Sean

Connery.

The wind lifts her hair

into whitecaps now

strand by strand a

grandmother.

Her lashes are still black

but the corners

of her eyes are soft as worn

flannel.

At night

she bounced me to sleep

humming

palm pressed into the small

of my small back

steadying the boat

between distant banks.

2

I saw the knife, the incision

watched my daughters removed

know the thick, knotted scar

their mother carries for them.

I bargain them to sleep:

one more story

glass of water

as they delay my leaving.

Later alone

I flail a phantom limb

from the small of my back

like an amputee

spin circles in the night.

Deep water opens again

beneath me.

I turn to my sleeping wife

my daughters

place my hands on them

myself in tow

straighten my course to the

steady stroke of their

breathing.