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White Water




The day is a stream
and your love a blue canoe;
there are rapids
around the corner
and all I can do,
unskilled as I am
in reading the waves,
is paddle with fervor—
terror in my gut,
and this goofy smile
glued to my face.
Tomorrow, perhaps,
the stream will be calm,
but today
the white roar of chaos
crashes all around,
rocking and tossing.
It does no good to pretend
life is anything but what it is,
so I paddle, I scull,
and I may not be dry
but dang, I’ve never
been so alive, my arms,
dripping in diamonding light,
our lives at stake.  

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Six Pondlings

why wear a red dress
when you can wear
a red canoe?

*

trying to memorize
these waves and the way they rise—
already distracted by those waves

*

casting for fish
I hook my own loneliness—
it steals the bait, swims away

*

I tell myself
I would have jumped in
if the boat hadn’t tipped first

*

I could swim better
if I let go
of this paddle

*

just when you think
you’ll never forget, all that you
can remember later
is that there was something
very special not to forget

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