By the Riverbank’s Edge
I rest my bones, my daughter’s picture of a misspent life. Catfish prowl the shallow mud scooping up beer can tabs, buttons, cigarette butts, fattening for someone’s idea of supper. Hot summer sun stirs up cicadas in the mesquite trees, the wind mixes juniper and clover, copperheads sleep in the shade. If it weren’t for sorrow, this day would be perfect. You, my own dear, left as soon as you got your license yet faithfully mail me art cards on Mother’s Day— The world is bigger than Texas you greet me, still roaming to find where that is. The dark eyes on the card stare back at me, black hair coursing around her pale skin. You see a Dutch masterpiece: I see a naked girl earning her way. In your eyes I gave up by settling for a plot of tumbleweeds higher than my head. I once wanted more than this latticed double-wide anchored by the Brazos, painting scenes all day in this field, forgetting to make meals, to haul in the wash before storms. The river Seine flowed through my veins promising hope even for a long shot like me. Mother’s money kept us kicking until you left for the life I bred into you the day I roared away from her white pillars and long brick drive. On the rocks of this river, I still feel you asleep in my arms while I read you all my books, sing French lullabies. At sixteen you pronounced me too Southern to leave, being simply content to spend the rest of my life painting what I see, sweating in the land of my dreams. Carol Louise Munn Originally published in WomenArts Quarterly Journal
from Spirits and Gnats (Kelsay Books, forthcoming)