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.