Pico de Orizaba

Pico de Orizaba
Taken from Huatusco, Veracruz, the closest town to Margarita's family's ranch.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Cedar Lake Poem (Inspired by Anya Spring 2000)

I stare into your depths and only see my reflection, 
dark and distorted by ripples, waves and swirls. 
Sometimes, when I look past myself, I notice the sky. 
But you, dark pool, hide depths I can only imagine. 
As a child, sitting upon floating docks, I feared 
water moccassins, giant snapping turtles, leaches, and the dark unknown. 
I imagined Jason exploding from your depths 
dragging me below the surface 
into your icy abyss 
where light becomes lost. 
where 40 foot seagrass reaches upwards towards the surface 
dreaming of touching the sun. 
Is that my destination; 
my limbs entangled in your long hair, 
my thrashing, my lungs gasping 
breaths won't come, can't come.
I remember those days. 

British swim instructors with bushy blonde hair
unwaxed bikini lines. 
10am instructionals under overcast skies 
before the sun had calmed and warmed the air 
those token 6 inches of surface water 
heated ever so slightly
If only...
I could glide upon those 6 inches
But my body always pulled me into the Lake's icy grasp
chilling me fearing the stoppage of breath. 
My eyes pleading for empathy 
Gray woman with heart of stone. 
Gray water. Gray sky. 
Pale eyebrows over gray eyes, 
my skin knobby, tightening and graying with chill. 
She never saw me beyond the lack of motion in my limbs, 
the wind drowning out the clattering of my teeth.

Cedar Lake. 
I sit in the sun upon the grass watching children splash in the shallows or 
I sit upon the docks, side of enclosure. 
I listen to the children's laughter
the sound of bellie flops, cannon balls, back flips 
Memories of myself resurfacing under the docks, 
momentary thrill of disorientation
Your waterworld turning upside down and backwards
I hear hands clapping water, splashing water into faces, 
the periodic call out of numbers in the buddy system. 
I stare out towards your distant shores of swamp grass, sand, rocks. 
An occasional sunfish glides across my vision 
boys and girls learning the art of sailing. 
I remember journeys in rowboats across your surface
adventures into the woods 
nights of camping and bonfires; 
tales of Cropsy who lived in the shack on your western shore, 
who stole stray children and ate them for dinner. 
We visited his shack occasionally for the thrill of danger 
we found broken beer bottles and bullet holes. 
We found new fantasies surfacing with every new discovery. 
We rushed away before the icy hand of his ghost grasped our small shoulders
Before we were discovered missing
and resumed fishing for bass and pickerel.

you appear in the eyes of a woman. 
In my reflection in her eyes. 
I smell the cedars. 
I see the thunderheads gathering south and west. 
I see the divets created by raindrops falling upon your surface.     

I wonder.


Jenny said...

So beautiful, sensuous, haunting (and haunted)! You really are a creative dynamo!

Ross said...

Thanks Jenny!