A River’s Lament by Jordan Abbruzzese Children’s feet echo on concrete Earth and I close my throat with mud. Could they recognize grass if it wasn’t planted? Do they know Orion’s Belt? I think of mothers sitting on edges of bed sheets, tracing constellations on their little boys’ backs, pictures that they will never know the name of. One day those boys will be men who walk on my backbones, placing plastic cups, socks, fishing line, a refrigerator into my outstretched arms. All I have are murky tokens that I will trade for a night for them to sit alongside me while I reflect Orion on my shining back for them to trace with their own fingers, then lift wet hands to their lips while they think of all of the sidewalk cracks they could fill with flowers and all the children who have yet to really see the sky.