Lana Hechtman Ayers

Yaquina Rivera

The river smells like the absence of sea,
like sky that has lost its confidence,

current wafting down the centuries from 
natives who lived and died on these shores,

the breaths of children’s laughter, their songs
ripple the slow water that goes

only at the pace it is determined to go.
The river smells like bufflehead feet and goose

feathers, salmon scales and brown silt,
fallen cedar boughs, dropped fir cones,

like women brave enough to swim
and gritty motor boat bottoms.

Slick as oil, clear as rain.
The river smells like green and bronze,

the blue of berries and purple of night, 
smells of floods and grief, of relief 

in times of drought, of every dreamer
who ever skipped stones upon it.

The river smells of sun’s sloped shoulders
and moon’s languid kisses, 

and the riverbank smells like a place
to plant myself for all my remaining years

rich delta, aroma I have come to love
despite missing the sea.

My Brother’s Final Seasons 

a haiku sonnet

a hundred apples
not one sweet enough 
his tastebuds sour on chemo

moon lights river ice
stars trapped in currents 
our prayers closed buds

late afternoon walk
amid open crocuses
his shadow drags behind

summer thunder
my brother falls 
out of remission

crows slash black ciphers
into October’s last blush

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