my mother named me after a river and when i was a child,
i always imagined rivers
to be narrower than they actually are, not so much spanning
wide and far, strong winds and people sinking to the bottom.

my mother, she named me after a river, and
i took a train from pennsylvania to new york last week, two hours
on a railroad track, and we passed by a river and
i thought, what if my name had no weight?
are there men drowning under me as i speak? is there a strong wind blowing?

perhaps i am only narrow and unwieldy, no river in sight, no flowing
from side to side;
there is no boat needed to walk over me, i will give you passage if you ask.

i write often of the riverbed, my arms
open and holding, wet soil,
like when the river bends, i move my back to its rhythm, my arms
like warm mud, open,

sinking. what men have i killed with my narrowness? i wonder.
my mother named me after a river and i wonder if she intended
for me to escape narrowness or embody it—my jaw swelling,
my feet sore from the travel. my mother named me after a river

and the river ends somewhere, right? the ocean
keeps records of these monuments; i am not narrow forever.

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