Amy MacLennan   © 2011 All Rights Reserved

Hunting Creek


We missed the eagleís plunge and grab, not the fish he grasped as he flapped up the creek.

Making a feast with our friends surrounded us with errands, the errands with engines. Tides pulled, then pushed, satisfaction flowing everywhere, crab pots, duck blinds. We talk and think in versional swoops, like parallax, like old automatic transmissions called Synchromesh. After dinner, the elegance of degrees of retiring after dinner. Light on the dock, on the post. Water ruddered by moonlight.

Itís not all about love, not all about desire, itís all about desire and love. We missed the turn, coming to a highway sloping into a valley, the Irish Sea down below, the Mystery of Being in Wales. The spanking-new you greets the spanking-new me, twins again, we tremble since we are so simple. Is it soulful to say I am simple and sorrowful? The jokes I tell toll with a tell-tale throb. A light lump of lather fell off my face and lodged on my chest hairs, a perfectly OíKeeffian cloud. Body art, body weather. It slid off easily onto my finger. The worm hooked on my hook fed the fishes. My life in the wide world. Your tides in my life. Flying upstream.

 

 

David McAleavey
Copyright © 2011  

David McAleavey teaches literature and creative writing at George Washington University. HUGE HAIKU (Chax Press, Tucson, 2005) is his fifth and most recent book of poems. His poems have appeared in many journals, including Poetry, Ploughshares, and Poetry Northwest, and are forthcoming in Magma Poetry (U.K.), Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere.


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