There Will Be a Day When You Meet Yourself at the River’s Edge

in a deep pocket of mountains,
agave sprouting along the sandy ridges;
carrying a box, wrapped in a cloth,
the ashes of a picture of how you dreamt your child,
a confession, how you need to let this pass;
watching crows catch each other in flight,
you wish to float like a body adrift
sent out into the ocean, relinquishing control.

Take the blade of a trowel to the earth,
scoop a mouth that swallows your dream whole,
think of the hands of a man
who sinks bodies into the Yamuna,
into the black waters of Delhi, while here,
boys paddle in the river in rental kayaks;
and you, kneeling on the slopy bank,
burying the dream of mothering,
sinking it into the throat of this world,
giving it back to the gods.