Eastward

by Miho Nonaka

Then I stepped into a river
I didn’t know existed. Sand
and silt between my toes, water
reaching my calves. Leaves
rustled, so many waves of green
glinting like swords on both sides
of the river. I was not alone
as I waded deeper, water now
lapping my thighs, and the wind,
the river, and birds seemed to say,
ultimately, what I ever wanted to
become did not matter. The milk
had come in the night before —
my unshapely left breast dripping
with such functional beauty.
I was three times as old as Mary
when she delivered the Son of Man.
The wind loosened my hair, turning
the river’s surface into so many
silver combs. The child heavy
in my arms as he started sleeping
in earnest, his hands in tight balls.
Above us, the clouds drifted,
on the banks, the leaves darkened
and grew bright again. The wind
had led me through water
that was now up to the waist.
What pierced me then was neither
the light, nor the chill of water,
nor fear, nor desire, but a sudden
realization that in this world,
helplessness is not unbeautiful.