She Walks Into The Sea.

Clark, Patricia (American poet)

 I dream my mother alive again after the photograph, half sky, half
water, her figure walking away, and further out to sea a striped
speedboat with its single occupant flinging its wake, white, past.
 After the photograph, I dream my mother here, back. Half sky, half sea,
and the memories of so many rivers that names pile up--Satsop, Puyallup,
Rogue--like surf.
A boat veered long ago at Lake Chelan, hitting her. The lawyers sued, a
settlement looked for on a wave. Always she preferred saltwater--its
buoyant, curative state. Why in the photograph does a speedboat kick
past?
It goes cutting through deeper water--see the drop-off falling away? It
poses no danger to the woman standing waist deep in water. The boat is
striped, water lies in stripes, shallow, deep.
I dream my mother alive again after the photograph. Struck by the boat,
she lay bleeding in water. No danger now. If a settlement came, there
would be money, money deep as water. In the photograph, she walks into
the sea.
When I dream her back, still she goes stepping into water. I want to
keep her from my fears at horizon's edge, the speedboat, an injured
woman down, bleeding in water.
I dream my mother alive again after the photograph, saying whatever
words I can to lure her from the sea, vowing to love her better next
time, this time, to accept settlement or money, water, the speedboat
tearing past.
And if the money never flooded in, the lawyer's bills all due in
cash, if the boat's driver was just a boy, never found at fault,
did a woman still lie down, bleeding in water?
If I had known how long she would be gone, whether she joined the ones
she loved, or not--but the water lay in stripes, muddy not clear, if a
long time meant forever--. After the photograph I could not catch my
breath,
a secret now coming true that had lain buried in the sea, something
about a woman stepping in time into water, the one watching from shore
tasting salt on her lips.