Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
THE TITTABAWASSEE RIVER CLAIMS ITS PAST
Woman rivulet the beginning
of a tributary pushing head first
through a small opening in purple earth
thoughts a light rain undercurrent
unsettled face a collage of red brown
yellow leaves bones as flexible as tadpoles
is impulse prone to interruption stresses
those who teem with her punctures bubbles
punctuates moods looks for wonder words
pushes sound: p-p-polly w-w-wog f-f-frog
her tongue hooking commas around the dropped roots
of willows she becomes creek pulls dark grooves
from blushing stones plays the blues by ear
wears an invisible skin of sun time widens
her hips she carves a path through red clay
drinks seasons of falling runoff becomes river
spreads long legs seduces heron hawk falcon eagle
the magnificent birds of water men
drawn to her unknowable flow they strut
swan but river disturbs their equilibrium
grows rash and reedy debones fish stories
man leans into her his image swirling
in rushing waters swollen with pride the river
claiming carrying away the past drunk on metaphor
look up the silhouette of a bird soars dips shears
the Tittabasassee rises becomes cloud light rain
on the crevice opening in purple earth
HOW IT BEGAN
Will Dad be sleeping with me tonight?
my mother asks as I make up her bed.
I stare at her. She asks again. I know
the answer, but I'm not sure how to say it.
No, Dad won't be sleeping with you tonight.
She shakes her head, What a funny thing
for me to ask, she says. Why, of course not.
Dad's been dead twenty years, don't I know that?
Ann Arbor Review | Home | next previous | Back to Top