What Do You Carry?
        —an Oregon Humanities call for writers

Beaches and their weather,
        how sand in seasons moves,
how walking just north of the cove
        I know inches below that summer's curve
cold basalt stretches flat, gray seamed,
        uneven swirled, ancient and stolid
yet somehow under January windless sun
        jaunty as a wind-caught cap
pinwheeling into August's surfy dissipations.

My seven-year-old fingers carry black
        pitted olives, Thanksgiving, a mother
too kitchen-busy to scold me then, father
        into his second drink, or third, that dark
mahogany dressed in white silvery silken
        linen, and plated, glassed, knifed, forked,
and spooned, gravy-bowled, salt-cellared
        and pepper-shakered, formal,
terrifying, phone book on my chair, all joints
        on the table will be carved.
Years of rains on roofs, that sound in sleep,
        storm of the five days, candles,
no school. And whom would you kill,
        and whom would you disobey?

Hospital corridors know me uncomforted,
        that April morning dewy-clear, first
he'd never see. Birds know me, and slugs, deer,
        hissy possums, raccoons and skunks.
The silence of a cougar once, its large paws, lilting
        tail, and coyotes baying at sirens.

(Ask not what has been lost, forgot, set down.)
        Creek water cold. Window views.
Fir trees' night silhouettes. Two Chevrolets,
a land boat Buick, blood on snow. And births
        simple, thankful, agonized, indelible,
fears gone and fears thus bestowed—gifts
        loved, not, not ever to be set down.
Lucky guy is what I carry, skin's memory,
        in marriage, oh such company.

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Copyright © 2019 Lex Runciman All rights reserved
from Hubbub
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission