Echoes of a River

    For Lene

I hear echoes of rivers. I may have
always heard them. Broad rivers,
narrow rivers, tributaries of rivers
led down to by stone steps going
right into the water for people to use
who punt in little boats.

Did I hear echoes of a river at birth?
I think I did. I think I still do.

Forget your troubles, Come on get happy –
‍Judy Garland, fedora tilted at a jaunty angle,
dancing all over a bright orange MGM soundstage –
We’re heading ’cross the river
Wash your sins away in the tide
It’s all so peaceful
On the other side.

I think Isaiah’s Suffering Servant is a river.
Not echoes. A river itself. He takes on
everyone’s suffering, including mine.
He is so repulsive no one can bear
to look at him. He never says a word.
He never says a murmuring word.

Today my friend Lene sent me
the reproduction of a work in pale blue,
black, grey and white by Else Pia Martinsen Erz:
geese, swans, women and men who are
refugees. All seen from the back, all
trudging through shallow waters – a river?
the promise of the sea? – toward a
gigantic bird, also seen from the back,
its wings outstretched upward toward
a hole torn in the sky.

Hole does not mean not there.
May I be ready for the river.