River Itself, The

American Poetry Review, The, Jul/Aug 1997 by Mead, Jane

Gretel chomps the shadow

of a crow, and the crow

falls-as the crow flies,

so to speak-into

the smashed corn.

Some of this happens

in a field, some

in the quarter-pounder

that is Gretel's head.

Also there is a bus

caught on a bend in the river.

The bus needs work.

Let me introduce myself:

I am Nina, keeper of the dachshund,

the dachshund Gretel

to be precise. One of the sorriest

shapes man ever thought up

when it comes to stomping

the muddy fields

but talk about swimming

Gretel swims like an angel.

Gretel is,

to be precise,

a short-legged angel.

I myself am Nina.

Wind.

There's a storm

named after me-just look

what it has done

to the banks of this river-.

Regard the ill-fated bus

and ask me if I give a damn.

Say Nina, do you give a damn?

I say crow.

I say wind.

It's a river.

I say look at the light

playing on the earth

and take it, so to speak,

with a grain of salt.

Or take it elsewhere

Gretel would.