up the water hole
Ledbetters:
the waterfall which we yearned to
explore on our days
off. like a fresh romance, we wanted to know
each rock on her body and how it got there.
the raft guides and myself,
the master of whitewater reservations, most days
working (trapped) in an old stone house
grabbing phones, calls from pockets-full-of-cash families, boy scouts,
seeking gorge thrills on full days of
sun and moody thunderstorms.
Ledbetters:
she sits down the railroad tracks which ran
through our cabin homes (and my little shack-barn)
traintracks that kept running next to its river friend, heading into
the town as a timid tourist train jaunt.
we’d creep on top of the rails, while sparrows sang their high-pitched
refrains, river rafters’ shrieks faded,
(i’d pretend not to hear the rattlesnake’s jingle).
the sun beat down ******* our shoulders,
but stopped its punches when we snuck off the tracks,
onto the trail, into the woods.
(then, the spots of sun shone only where trees told them to)
down the path,
past the wooden bridge where we played Pooh Sticks,
past the old campfire spots, the towers of rocks we crafted so carefully,
to get to Ledbetter’s legs: her huge rocks, the heavy flow of water, her blood.
i always slipped and fell as i jumped from rock to rock,
up and over cliffed streams. higher and higher we would climb,
until we reached her narrow water hole:
Birth Canal.
i’ve been afraid to climb up Birth Canal—
shimmy up and clench its slippery rocks with gravity’s water
working against me. i’m almost certain she would wash me away,
i’d tumble down all her rocks, crack my skull on wet rock,
more of a Death Canal.
when you can overcome your mind,
are you truly reborn?
