THE VÉZÈRE AGAIN
There is that bastard river again, born on the back of swans, boats rowing slowly through the morning air. The water, so low now in September, one can count each passing fish, give each a name in what words please you. Here an old man is buried in stone dreaming a pearl in its oyster. He was my father, parched now, his juice wrung out; Roller and poke. The same cord repeats on the piano, drifting down the wood stairs. Roller and poke. Each passage wears the treads smoother. The fishermen have forgotten their poles and gigs. Tonight they eat potatoes with shaved Gruyère. The water grasses are serpents swimming to the sea. His ashes drift down from the bridge.
Michael Hanner is an architect whose poems are found in Timberline Review, Nimrod, Southern Humanities Review, Gargoyle, Mudfish, and others. His most recent books are Avenida Uriburu, 2014, October, 2015 and Adriatica, 2016 and a guide book, Le Bugue, Black Périgord & Beyond, 2016. He loves Toni Hanner, sharp scissors, Esterbrook pens, travel, irony, English croquet, French cooking, Argentine tango and photography.