Sonia Greenfield: River Dolphin

I thought I was going
to tell you about that ship
in the Yangtze, how upturned
hull sat on the rusty surface
like an iceberg

in that the better part
of the boat hung beneath
the churning like muddy
catacombs. I thought I was
going to tell you about men

in orange vests pressing ears
to cold metal, listening
for pings and knocks. Thought
I was going to admit relief
to learn it was pensioners

and not a school trip,
thought I’d admit how easy
to accept motherless child over
childless mother. I thought I’d say
how the weather lashed,

thought I’d picture a whip
of rain wrapped around upper-level
rails, how it snapped the top
under. Instead I want to say
all the Baiji are gone.

Fishermen plucked them
from a river, which makes its
bodily exchange. Rocks along
shore are heartless, and the endless
coursing absorbs all the rain.

Published 2016. Rightly despairing beneath its touristic impressionism.