Riverpulse

Far enough in the woods, in a clearingwhere we walked away from the wind,

you snapped branches to markour way back.

Like a slow river, Mother driving the paddleinto rapids from the back of the canoe,

summers when I opened my eyesunderwater. Each foamy red object

buried was a cloudy landscape we couldn'ttouch—tires frayed in shrouded sand,

a shovel with algae for a handle.I wasn't sure if I was full sun

or cool stones under the surface. Being heldby you is like that.

Each ring surfacing in the water,as you skipped rocks,

a mushroom circle where women of the past

lent tears to the land. It had been sometime since I came to pray

on the altar of my mother's womb.Just as long as I've known

my desire was a river,

I let the paper boats of childhooddrift into the night.

The sky was a circle of poplars.I was the color of antler-bone

when I let you touch mein the second time of knowing you.

I was on my knees, my kneeson the roots of poplar,

rocking in circles like hawk'swings. You have to understand

I had been waiting since I was fifteento know the grooves of your hips

as well as water rippling in the creek.

A hawk landed on the poplar branchabove us, creasing the blue

like its wings were portals,ripples extending all directions from stone

before a one-day worldin which one of us is gone.

Picked flight again, leavinga streak of red pollen

floating down on us as it flew west.I was opening my eyes again

under the bright surface,taking with me everything

in arm's reach, just to holdit all in sight.