What am I but her-daughter, his-mother—
a muddy mirror for their reflections
this scarred body of mostly water
bathing their feet, their roots like flag iris
filling my shallows with color and spikes.
She swears her impossible oaths on me
he knows nothing of the body’s erosion.
Weary of waterlilies it’s Monet’s
Winter Sun I want: an iced-over Seine
the lifting of bare branches unburdened
every color of snow-light on shadow.
We stood before it once, my son and I
discussing the theory of refraction—
how the brain interprets light as it breaks.
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