Two Poems

By Carla Panciera

The Sakonnet River

 

Her name means Haunt of the Wild Black Goose.

 

Yesterday, the wind made a sea of her, blew her
green, and later, roiling black fringed with white.

 

Left behind:  coyote skull, canines bared at a ridge of shells,
the stone-worn glass handle of a sugar bowl, purple, a knot of yellow rope. 

 

This morning she is slate, then a deep, oceanic blue.
She curls over her bank, a conciliatory lapping.

 

She has stranded a rowboat in the low branches of a tree,
propellered oars into a field. 

 

She keeps the family lost in her
as if they never set out across her, as if no story told the truth.

 

And the final confidences of the young man who lay down beside her,
the prayers of the old woman who mistook fog for something that would hold her?

 

The river can’t return everything she has swallowed.

 

Beneath clouds, sunset runs its tributary beside her.  
She casts the colors back, the reflections of departing geese.

 

At night, starred with lights from the opposite shore,
she is her own sky, archivist, opportunist.

 

 

The Dog Returns to a Quiet House

 

The dog trots back
from his wandering
along the river.

 

The windows are low
and even short dogs like this one
can't hide. 

 

The dog doesn't know
he is being watched by two people
who have nothing to say
to each other.

 

He wouldn't care
if he did.

 

He would snap at an imaginary fly
or chew his own tail,
his mind uncluttered
by thoughts
of whether he is loved or not
according to his actions.

 

When he gets to the door
and sees the people
holding their coffee, he barks.
Let. Me. In.

 

They do.
He finds a rug,
commences licking.

 

The people resume staring
out the window where
nothing more
is promised.

Published April 2009