Rosanne Singer

                    (for a daughter drowned)

What would a sculptor
call my pose? Mother kneeling
at pier’s edge? Crouched crone
grieving? For three years I bend
more easily than I stand.

Here is what you used
to love: wafer-thin seaweed,
cucumber sushi,
fermented black beans, old tastes
for a teenage girl’s lunch pail.

I sink to my knees,
my offering a red boat
on silent ripples.
No one stares anymore
at my new religion.

Your lunch travels out
then down. Do you reach for it
as I do for you?
Today I put salted fish
for your twentieth birthday.