En el río

for strangers,

for a handful of pesos.

Scrubbing threads pristine

river water turned white foam.

I wonder if the bubbles were to her

her children, I wonder if she bid them

blessings, I wonder if even then she knew

she’d leave us poor and mourning. Her kids ate

once a day. Beans and tortilla. Nothing belongs to us.

Soiled water ran toward rock filtration, toward cascade,

ashamed of my grandmother’s dirt, her sweat. The river rains.