In A Sitka Art Gallery
A sculpture stares at me,
dares me to come closer,
see that it is made of whalebone,
see the native artist north of Nome
who found the bone on the beach,
who spent dark winter days carving,
carving the faces of a dancer and drummer
to look like his father, as his father did
for his father, and for his father,
see what I, a tourist looking for trinkets,
never knew I lost.
Stanley Park, Vancouver
Renegade raccoons approach me
on the Lost Lagoon trail.
When I fail to offer food,
they disappear into the brush,
and suddenly I want to follow,
live along the lagoon,
lost to civilization,
lost to the me I am today,
lost — and found.
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The Current
The river rages over you, over me—
our overturned canoe takes off,
leaving us stranded, struggling,
then grasping a wedged tree trunk.
Fear on your face shifts to relief,
then disbelief that this happened.
You stare at me, searching for signs
that I'm okay, that I forgive you
for thrusting me into the river,
risking my life when I'm a
city-slicker, swimming-pool girl
afraid of snakes, mud, and bugs.
In nature, death reigns—everything rots.
You promised a pristine float trip,
a civilized picnic with champagne,
and now, shaking, waterlogged,
after a plunge into darkness,
I yearn for shore.
Letting go, the river rages,
launching us into its current.
Sleep
In the universe of my mind,
mysterious like the Milky Way,
I enter intergalactic travel,
dive down a black hole,
as synapses pulse, sending images
telescoped into dreams—
dreams that disperse on reentry,
grounded by earth's gravity.
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