Who was my mother
in the sunlight as she stared
into the confluence of the Blue
and White Niles? Two ancient rivers
joining—the conjunction point—
now as one, flowing north.

What kept her there—her staring—
beyond the bright sun, as taxis left,
the National Geographic photographer
who was so friendly disappearing
into his car, as the sun dipped and darkness

shut without the usual red dusk
of the Midwest? What was
she thinking as she stood with her
young daughter in a war-torn Sudanese
country in 1959? Maybe it was our
emergency landing in Addis Ababa

or the recent death of my father,
or her vision of the conjoint rivers
beckoning her to dream their dream—
of water flowing, deep feminine current,
of blood, sinew, ash—
in the riverbed of dark mourning

the wet holding that she never felt—
but here in Khartoum—
the unfastening of herself, the unwrapping
of sorrow kept under—opening to her,
deep river of the given and the thin black
seam pressed against stone, that left
us at the river’s edge.

Men slowed their cars and yelled,
pretty woman, pretty woman.
My mother, startled from her reverie,
grabbed my hand, pulled me toward low trees,
running—blue air, forked trees,
our heads lowered, dipping, weaving—

the dark cathedral pulling us
through sheets, bright-winged angels
blaring down horns and light—
run pretty lady run,
under the winnowing dusk,
her hand pulled mine,

blue river traveling, white river
its conjoint stream, muddied source,
downdrafts and up-swirls,
bursting into itself,
moon behind its shade,
the arrowed legs
of her stride, my stride,

without definition, skirts unfolding
and refolding, our breath
formed by convergence,

then suddenly rain, out of nowhere—
flood of heaven, dream of ocean,
tide of mud and root.

Men in cars quicken their engines,
pull out into the flow toward town,
stilled, dark, pungent.

Blue meets White, offers itself,
moving north, spreads its ribs,
heaving and sighing,
knows its body—
deep fissure, animal element,
plumbs its course, a benediction.