Black River, 1999 or So

Momma floated on
her back down
that tar-water
capillary,
so heavy with tannin
and decay, her hand
would dissolve,
amputated,
six inches
under the surface.

The cut onyx
eyes of the coral
snake I saw jigging
through the current
became hissing lures
that I pictured placing
my body into
and fading,
black and blacker,
until I was just part
of the river–part
of the musket ball
mystery, lost coin fountain,
beer can and bone
catacomb,
flooded
biblically.

I’d take the form
of some smooth or fluted
disc of bone tucked
into a catfish hole–

something Momma
could find
alongside the horse
teeth & cow
skulls she liked
to dredge up
when she dove down
to the bottom
on just one gulp
of air, and string
up into a necklace
when she resurfaced in
the light, as if she were
being reborn
to a more loving sky.