Mary Kay Rummel

Estuary

The little river that wound through sand, gone,
swallowed by sea, only one curve, small pool
behind it where fresh meets salt, the beach stones
gone, birds forced further in, the sun now melon
now scarlet, islands mist lost, hard to distinguish
rocks from gulls, ribbons of them skim across
lavender foam and there on what’s left of beach
one figure hunches, or is it driftwood holding on
to this bit and there against the surf the river runs
its melody and here I stand against night coming on,
hunched against change in mango light, in avocado
evening, I want to cross, I want to stand in amazement.

Once while sitting in the dentist’s chair
I decided to believe.  They gave me
earphones for distraction and suddenly
Joe Carter was singing “Deep River,” his voice
a river deep running through a bleak wild valley,
harmony sung by a Siberian choir.

Against the deepening, two herons along the shore
both straight and curved make me wish for a neck
that could fold its way out of pain.  While ribbons
of pelicans straggle west two egrets, chalky in the dark,
guard the entrance to the river pool.  Pacific blue
lavender of Guatemalan jade, holy stone of the Maya,
fresh water and salt, lavender stone and water.

My mouth pulled sideways like a gargoyle’s
I decide to believe because of that music.
The young dentist going at my tooth and gums
against all evidence, against my resistance,
with hammers and scrapers, music, river,
what flows out goes somewhere.