Letter to My Mother from the Shuswap

At the lake, the water is
still. It doesn’t retreat as we do. Here,
I learned how to bury the dead

within myself. You scattered my father
at my feet as the sun bowed
its head. The sky, still. I remember

your hands closed around the boy
he was, skin once browned
in the summer sun as he played

with us near shore. You moved
around me then, low prayers
plating your mouth. His name, said

like he was accident, not
the accident we all are. You taught me
how temporary water levels are

as you moved within me, Chanel No. 5
lingering after you passed. O how I want
to be less tired of wanting

what’s lost. In water, nothing returns.
But you gave me a name
before I knew I needed one. A girl,

fraying with the intentional motion
of bodies—, the water moving us
further from ourselves.