Winooski from the Seventies
Part I: Antecedent
The children I’ve named
Weren’t antecedent like the river
The river has shards of pottery and keys
And a name now
But it was here before the plates crashed
Before the glaciers dotted the fields
With their erratics
Did the wild onions swoosh?
Did they help make their name?
The car would get so hot
Waiting on route 2 for our stained bodies
So recently covered, then rinsed, of blue clay
We’d have rocks in our pockets
So alive they’d hum
The 90 mile swirl the Winooski leaves
On the folded-up map
Is not very different than a stain a bubble leaves
When you put a drop of ink
Carefully along the rim of the wand
And blow the bubble against paper
Part II: Heartbreak Hotel
I did a K-turn onto the dirt road called Hudson Street
Exactly where two decades earlier, I’d walked
Determining if my labor was false
We returned to that apartment over the river
Almost right away, changing light, lashes dark
The contractions were true
A clock is a good measurer, the river is better
Earlier that day I’d read the horoscope: Born Today
But it wasn’t accurate, yet
She’d be born tomorrow
And that long ago tomorrow
I walked out on the porch
She was not inside me anymore
I was alone, that different alone
An alone always in reaction to believing she was safe
I told the Winooski what her name was
That creature inside the house, not ancient at all
That had swooshed out like a fish
I drive back to our now home, but same river
Our son may not even know the river’s name
To him it is “the” river, the article is definite
It is “his” or “our” river
The pronoun is possessive
There’s no porch over it, the slope is gradual
Saw grass hems in the path down
It sliced his fingers once
They bled and bled
And he felt a little betrayed
Part III: Gear Ratio
The whorls on a child’s thumb mean something to someone
Galaxies on fingertips, spirals and wheels
Constellations that align, or not
My third daughter, while nursing, would close the circuit
She’d touch the mole on my cheek and chin
Needing proof I wasn’t an imposter
Now, at 14, we fight
I slammed the cabinet door
Something fell, and shattered the tiny pitcher
Its cut glass pattern lost integrity; turned to dust
It transported me to a rabbit’s den-
Warren swept, chamomile hanging in bundles
It held milk for my tea since I was ALL her ages
Two saturated brown dots are on her hand
Fang spaced, between the web of her thumb and pointer finger
I used to touch them at the same time, too
After a stressful week, the miracle of a weekend deposit
Into our bank account went the tax return
Filled to the brim, briefly, fleetingly,
Ungracefully distributing back out:
Rented clarinets, booze, cars, and insurance on cars
We go to the used-everything store
There’s my childhood pitcher, 27cents
The earth had not even gone around the sun once
I seek glorious gear ratios
But they are clumsy and inglorious
Gears and pitchers are things you find in the river
They are not the Sun or the River
Part IV: Brewery of Eggshells
The crescent moon
Flips from side to side
Pulling those tides, raking those shells
I owe my friend money
He welded our car so it could make it
To a five-hour away wedding
In their dresses, my older girls had their periods
Anxiety beaded through my eldest
Her dread of crowds tangible
The car made it there intact, she had not
It’s a mistake to think the contractions’ work is over
Once the life (or almost life) is expelled
The sisters are bleeding again
I hate the gnaw of owed money
I don’t cinch up jackets anymore
Pushing hair under hoods, behind ears
Drawstrings drawn
Again, that feeling, I bestowed a name
The ocean restarts each day
Moves back the scallops and the clams
But the river, its deep adding up
The woman, that mother in the story
She tricks the changeling into speaking
“Such a small eggshell of pottage?
For so many hungry men?”
I cannot imagine what would surprise
A modern-day changeling
But our river, it could change them back