At My Mother's Bedside.

At My Mother's Bedside

   At the edge
   her legs
   thin as tree roots
   hanging above a river
   thirst for the icy
   current to pull her
   into the fish swells
   drag her through weeds
   to the soft sand
   the wrinkled bed sheets
   of the river bottom
   where at last she can lie still
   letting the water fill up her mouth
   and ears
   close her eyes
   look up
   at daylight shattering
   the water's surface
   the way a crystal bowl
   once fell from her hands
   onto the kitchen floor