RIVERSIDE

To sit beside a river near the lap of shallow waves

where water smooths out the sand.

In the distance a deep channel

carries motor boats and mariner winds

up and down the currents for the pleasure of it,

for the bounce of the bow,

for the dip of the stern,

for the stiff blast of air against the face

that drowns out phonetic sounds with a motor’s roar.

To sit in the middle of a river on a dry boulder

where water rushes past large stones.

Wild, overgrown banks are set in motion  

by wind-blown branches,

shores are close enough to call across,

a bridge is low enough to see

anyone standing beside the river bed,

and it is shallow enough to walk across

when there are long droughts and dry wells.

To sit on a curb and watch river water

flood historic districts and tobacco warehouses.

Its overflow rises to the tops of street signs

that serve as underwater map pins

set afloat like channel buoys

to mark bateau boats unearthed,

slave auctions hushed,

warehouses burned, and  

African American burial grounds paved over.

To sit by a riverside remembered

and pause the water’s flow.

©  cmheuer, 2018