At My Mother's Bedside

...At My Mother's Bedside At the edge her legs thin as tree roots hanging above a river thirst for the icy current to pull her into the fish swells drag her through weeds to the soft sand the wrinkled bed sheets of the river bottom where at last she can lie still letting the water fill up her mouth and ears close her eyes look up at daylight shattering the water's surface the way a crystal bowl once fell from her hands onto the kitchen floor Joan I. Siegel...