Ruth Daigon

We keep pulling him up
from the bottom of the Red River
in stop-action or slow-motion
and replay the splash
blooming around his hips.

We correct his dive,
restore the promise
of his form, each movement
clear in the instant of falling.

The moment reversed,
we reel him up
to where he's still
sitting on the bank.

Mother covers her
bare scalp with hair
torn by its roots.

Screams sucked back
into her mouth become
soft syllables again.

Her shredded clothes
re-woven. The table set
for his return.