Public Republic

Marilyn Kallet

Photo: Choufi///

Today the Garonne flows greener than the poplars,
more limber, sky is smoke pierced
with light, gulls make dazzling punctuation
marks like childhood on Jones Beach.

The river runs more fluid than people,
who get stuck in arguments,
in graves. Jones Beach outings all but buried,
my mother and father the ashes of driftwood–

they got stuck when their bodies
deserted, my father one year older
than I am now. What would I say to them
if they drifted past on this grassy green river?

If they made the terrible effort to come back,
my father who deserted me for his bad heart,
my mother drifting past without her burdens,
could I love them quickly enough to be grasped?

My childhood marks Jones Beach like a willow,
flows greener than poplars by the Garonne.