Panning Amapa by Mary Susan Clemons

Panning Amapa
by Mary Susan Clemons

Clouds, like unwatched milk, boil
over the tree rim. The air hushes, grumbles
of the sun’s saturation.

I stand between hemispheres, watch
the cargo plane bank north, a flash
in the bubbling storm above the Corridor.

The water swallows my knees, tugs my thighs.
A heron, I pose above its currents, scratch
the Rio Amapari’s belly with my plate.

Gently I shake it, like my mother
in a manganism tremor, splash silted water,
and hope for a revealed glint – an escapee

excavated from the elevations. My fingers
fondle the sediments.
Stir, slosh. Stir, slosh.

I pluck a nugget, pocket it,
and stoop again, knowing
this will not be enough
to comfort her.

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