North to the Roanoke River.
Forty-eight miles, less distance
than I’ve driven you to the beach
or the seven-hour drive to camp
where you learned to build a fire.
The Roanoke has been called
The River of Death. For all I know
it’s taken lives, but it’s not my river
and it’s going to keep you alive.
Maybe I’ll park at the State Line
Church, hands clammy and wrung
together—not a prayer, not really,
but a hope and a tired determination.
There are reasons, of course,
those multitudes of soft-sung
whys when I explain your name,
your hair, your canon changes,
but the river doesn’t ask questions.
You can’t see the river from here,
we passed it before it could try
to live up to its appellation. We leave
your dead name there on the banks.
A placard below the state’s welcome sign
says, careful with fire. It’s meant as
a warning. I take it as a battle hymn
and vow to drive you these miles
as many times as it takes to make you
safe, despite the growing reach of hate
that would like to smother you like kudzu.
That’s what mothers are supposed to do.
Careful with fire.
It doesn’t care about borders.