Another River Poem
Wistful mourning clouds,
like scattered charcoal again.
Sporadic ominous rumbles,
and I go to the river.
The Crescent City,
because it bends like the water.
This impossible place
full of darkness
and grace,
and everyone is
going to the river.
They walk to the river,
they ride to the river,
they dance and slide
and trance to the river.
Shirtless bulk,
covered in ink,
strides like a myth
to the river.
Working girl,
hasn’t slept all night,
lost of purpose,
limps to the river.
Neighbors and strangers
and loners and lovers,
with their children, and
their dogs, and their
grateful joys and burdens,
find their way
to the river.
There is a call
that leads them,
as it draws me, too.
It pulls from an ancient middle,
and though I do not hear it,
and I cannot recognize it
as anything other than
my own impulsive wish,
it is in my body.
It is in their bodies.
It is unheard and sacred, and
not because it is silent,
but because it is
deafening.
As we go to the river
with our invisible desires
to join our water with water,
we move our eyes to the
skyline and the willful sky,
so fervent and coy
in its temperament,
the others moving,
all of them a current,
and if this city is full of ghosts,
they too are drifting ––
breezy and tumbling memory,
that seeks forgetfulness,
and forgiving ––
to the river.
New Orleans, Aug 2021
Steve Spehar
