National Poetry Month
Poem of the Week
April 25, 2005
The very first day when we capsized
at the edge of the wilderness,
you wanted to hike out, get back
to the safety of hotels,
and I admit it was terrifying
to feel our canoe
whip around in the wind
as we flailed with our paddles
just before the wind flipped us.
You came up with the boat's rope
in your teeth---of all things!---
and I had somehow caught all three paddles.
We dog paddled to the branches clogging the bank,
scooped our gear up---
the canoe on its side still holding our duffle
and some cans of food, big water jug.
Then you said, If we flip again, we'll drink
the river. You tipped
the canoe up and we drained it,
gingerly climbed back in.
The next day we rose in the dark before the wind
came up, and, later, at its first stirring,
we steered for shore. After we set up camp,
we climbed the cliffs to an old spring
some pioneer had mortared in, and there
we drank fresh water.
Nearby an old cabin
sprawled among clumps of cacti.
When it got too hot,
we crawled under an overhang, read to each other,
and I asked you why
the river made us so glad
as it floated past,
gurgling a little, shiny and red.
--Mary Crow
First published
in
The Midwest Quarterly (Autumn 2003).
Copyright (c) 2003 by Mary Crow.
Used with the author's permission.
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