...POETS corner'

The Dead Go Down to the Stygian Waters



My father stands empty-handed, waits for my brother.
By the river he waits, impatiently.
A flock tilts,
Spirals, unfurls, settles serried in a maple.
The water is volatile, shape-shifts from rain to mist,
To the river's sluggish tug, silk then tarnished silver.
The hawk, scholar of thermals, turns above the windbreak.
Frost crystals on the scat; rust pinpoints the wire's barb.
The dead go down to the Stygian waters, the dead
Go down. My father stands empty-handed.
My brother—
Not late but on the other side—steps into the water
To ford the distance until he is in over his head
And to his surprise can breathe in this water as in air.