The View from the Riverbed

my mother keeps a lockbox at the back of her closet 
behind the woolen sweaters a rectangle of cold grey air 
     like a window altar 
     like a handful of river stones to place on the tongue 
like something to eat 
or something that will eat you 
stick a hand or a head through 
     it’s a watch 
     a suitcase 
clip to the belt 
something to cinderblock a corpse — 
     make it sink

(my grandmother dies of mouth cancer 
something that eats away at her speech 
     a parasitic language 
they clip the thin membrane that joins her tongue to the bottom of her mouth
her speech becomes wobbly, loose, 
     the words don’t make it out they 
          sink to the riverbed gutter of her mouth 
     gather silt 
the ones she does push out are slippery with moss)

she takes the waterlogged words she cannot say 
and puts them in the box 
she pours the river in with wrinkled, overripe hands 
     and, in doing so, she reaches through time 
to clamp something heavy to my ankle

I am at the bottom of the river 
its bed is jade bracelets 
     real gold links hidden in paper pouches as brown and creased as my grandmother’s hands
     and clutched just as tight 
things tucked safely, warmed in her wet cheek-pocket 
     spat into us 
we jetsam our lives in transit 
and trust the current will hold 
we sink things so we can find them again

I am at the bottom of the river
     I open my mouth to the water, fill my lungs with 
     jade bangles, gold chains, watch faces 
I am the lockbox 
I am looking up through the surface 
I am looking down into the river in my chest 
     my ancestors, at the shore, are gutting fish.

By Em Chan (he/they), editor for VIADUCT. His bio can be found here.