The River

By Lucy Ricciardi

Join me as we slip past the broad breath 
of the fog, lapping us in our water, lit this 

morning by flecks of sun reflecting our 
mood as it swallows us, floating ever closer 

turning us gently toward the single lane 
of its braid and pull.  Its resistance prepares 

us for the coming silence – can you hear it? 
Calling you?  “Muscle, moist, hoist, and rejoice”.

It’s all about motion.  Forward.  Or not. 
More like the fish-tailing creep of crowds  

enlisting friends and foes.  No one is immune. 

How long have you been watching me? 
My brain and I have a pact, we respect 

each others’ borders.  Just as outside,

almost every afternoon on Madison Ave, 
the truculent sun delivers a stately parade

of reflections – of the cars moving past 
a smudge of trees, in a painting, at the hungry

museum.  Outside, the crowds flow faster, 
coalesce in their restricted river beds

unaware they’ve been part of someone’s
memory as in a life lived backwards  

in a river of grief.  No longer restorative,
it resides in each of us.  Enter the water.
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About Lucy Ricciardi

Several years ago, I turned to the study and writing of poetry. My poems raise issues of fairness, health, love, and the weirdness of Nature. I was raised in Carle Place, Long Island, in one of Levitt’s first housing developments. I now live with my husband in Connecticut where I am currently working on a first collection.

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