–And the River Like Ink
Most floats you find me feet up
on the gunwales, cold drink
koozied in my hand, scanning sky-
or bankward for interesting bits–
the first yellow sprout amidst green,
a flat tail in retreat. It doesn’t feel
like toil. Just motion, being propelled,
each bend a nudge to notice what
I couldn’t see two or three strokes
earlier. We hit snags, of course,
when I fail to scour the surface and,
too late to veer or draw, we scrape
or come full stop. Most scratches
on the craft are my fault, too distracted
by the cyclone of eagles banking an updraft,
say, or by webs between branches so gauzy
they could staunch blood, to consider
what awaits below the water line.
After Sunday School
Meteors and volcanoes, or God–
my nephew at four debated
his best car-seated buddy
about what snuffed the dinosaurs,
erased forever any chance
for a pet stegosaurus.
The black nylon straps
chevroned across their torsos
pointed at each other in red-
lidded clips, like blood-
dipped fingertips.
His dad, the philosopher driver,
suggested maybe God sent
the meteor to trigger the volcano,
so they could each be right.
The one-second pause before
they both blurted NO
informed their chauffeur
the four year-olds relished
the rift, wished it to linger
more than their common longing
for a pet filled the gap between belts.
Michelle DeRose teaches creative writing and African-American, Irish, and world literature at Aquinas College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her most recent poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Sparks of Calliope, Dunes Review, Making Waves, The Journal of Poetry Therapy, and Healing Muse.
Sparks of Calliope 