river of my childhood

with every springtime flood
the river washes away
our footbridge
washes over the fields
right up to the orchard

every spring the
rising waters
also wash away
a newborn baby
wrapped in rags

you can hear the
whimpering
in the evening
barely audible
floating by

the baby of a servant girl,
a washer woman,
slow, plain, of few words
to have a look
we would all run there after school
but what we found was
a bundle of dirty rags
between the reeds

river of my childhood
you wash away all secrets

* * *

his real face
you will have forgotten by now
(you don't even know
if he is alive, or well)
just a few photographs: a young
man, from good family

so few
memories
a handful of shards
which wound you whenever
you pick them up, but you
still hope to put
them together, though
it doesn't work

he is taking a picture of you
a bow in your fair hair
a velvet dress
an enormous doll
you press it
to yourself, tightly
with both hands

they are holding you in their hands
there—the three of you
sitting on a lawn
he, mother, and you

did it really exist
that world
dependable, familiar, your very own?
it is hard to believe

you are still so little
you fly to the gate at the sound
of each engine on the road
to see
perhaps it is he
coming home

and the never-spoken why
is stuck
in the throat
like a lump
bitter and burning