Repeating the names of the dead the names of the dead
I hear that water keeps sound endlessly, a field ringing with voices.
Your names have been lost down the river we grew beside, the river that killed some of us.
Caught like flood debris against the wingdam.
Taking off down the Delaware toward Trenton, and further on to the sea’s ringing vacancy.
Or, like how light through water frays toward darkness and the riverbed.
All of you down there, current.
I open my lips, and water makes me home.
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