Panning Amapa
by Mary Susan ClemonsClouds, 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 escapeeexcavated 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.