Margo Solod
This poem is not the river I left behind,
its stanzas contained within a single county.
This poem is 187 miles long, carves its way
through an entire state. This is not the poem I waded across
in summer; this poem holds parts deeper than I am tall,
runs too swift for even my strong-swimming, giant dog
rushing madly after ducks. This poem does not embrace
fat, lazy perch and bluegill easily-caught-and-fried-in-cornmeal
dinners, hard-fighting red-eyed hybrid bass, 6-inch brown trout
or one beautiful 15-inch rainbow I caught where it should not be.
This poem holds monsters that elude me, salmon and steelhead
migrating downstream in the spring. In fact, all the fish
in this poem elude me. But this poem does include cold, shady
places I dunk in during the hottest days, swimming holes
and boulder fields and gravel bars doubling as islands
the dog and I can reach in low water. This poem is not right
outside my door, but I can walk there. This poem is crowded
in summer, yet secluded spaces still find and embrace me.
This poem has flipped me off my feet more than once,
frightened me. It is not the poem I lived with,
not the poem I want when I am homesick. This poem
flows north downstream which feels somehow wrong,
surges and eddies and splashes me when I linger
on its truncated winter banks.
This poem is my poem now. It will nourish me
if I let it.