Prayer at Gray’s River
When a mother seizes one life
god moves mudstone like water
for miles toward the Pacific
and ash rains for months.
I build a little cairn from mudstone
crumbling along a bleached river bed
exposed by floods most winters.
If I leave the cairn sit,
Jack’s memories leach away.
So sometimes when I’m strong
I take one shard from the top
and taste the grit.
The stone is weak, unlithified,
like my memories.
I place it back gently--
undo only the slightest fleck
with my breath. The last time
I admonished Jack
I can’t remember my words
but I do see a glaring sun
and his cheeks flushed from drills
his sweat-matted hair
brushed back, the tears in his eyes
while he watches me instruct him to work harder
with the same eyes that challenged his mother,
It’s not like I’m going to die!
he vowed, two nights before she drugged him
and drowned him with a pillow.