To the River
Marisa Lin

I went to the river
            once. Called the head
            of a trout a vowel 

I can only pronounce
            in my sleep, folded
            crabgrass against 

itself, sliced my finger open
            to find nothing
            beating between want

& bone. Feathers glued
            to my knuckles, stalks
            piercing my skin

like false suns, I walked & the way
            of my walking was how children
            lose their names. Still,

there are doors I cannot
            open. A heart that fell
            into my mailbox once

with a note that said to feed it
            oxygen, grace, & green
            beans. But when it opened

its mouth, it demanded donuts. Which
            side, I asked the heart,
            of love is better: the dread

before or disappointment
            after? But then its valve clogged
            & all I could hear

was the muffled singing
           of blood. Only years later, when
            water licked my skin, did I feel

the agony of all of which I did not know, cities
            feeding upon themselves, bodies
             & their radiant wounds, pools

of trash. Or how I became my mother, who
            when she could not take
            away my loneliness, declared

it was all in my head. So I went to the river, knelt
            by the bank, & swallowed
            all of it.

Marisa Lin is a poet, organizer, and daughter of immigrants who settled on Wahpeton land (Rochester, Minnesota). Her debut chapbook, DREAM ELEVATOR, was published in 2024 by Kernpunkt Press. Their work can be found in Poetry South, Porter House Review, Cimarron Review, and the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-A-Day series. Marisa holds a Master’s Degree of Public Policy from UC Berkeley.