Читать книгу & in Open, Marvel - Felicia Zamora - Страница 10

A Long Road Never Takes Us

Fish poke the surface, entice

ripples to hoard the shore, release,

hoard again. The light shifts

everything here. Bug spray in my hair,

hummingbird at the picnic table, the clouds

lulling under their transformative bellies—

there has always and never been this—

longing of a mind carried in a body

here. The sun touches my shoulder, old friends

gathering at one of the lake’s many mouths

luring all senses; caught. The wash of waves,

sectioned and small, so persistent: the body

functioning without my consent.

I spent my whole life neglecting the lap

in my ears, half listening out of body

of water; drowning in my own fluid-filled spaces.

The kayaker’s need of water’s drift: my need

to witness. Infinite rhythms we share

and scavenge. The crows scale the Ponderosas

tip to tip—games in birds’ eyes. I want to believe

a long road never takes us. We are led

with wings and tympani and slick wet

inside and out. The canoe wears its name

Old Town— red and passionate on the bank;

footprints trail away and to: abandon

casts no reflection in late summer’s glow.

Five months out of winter’s gait

empty will haunt this inlet again. An unknown

tune from the boy behind me. Hums still

as his grandfather baits his line; I might know

how, escapes him. Silence and toil. The ever sway

of small legs on a bench—reaching.