It was late summer,
I think.
The white brown
bow of the boat
rocked gently
as I situated
my feet, shoulder-
width apart
and sat down.
I promised
myself more times
than I could count
that sad year
that I would row
every other morning.
Why are boats
always rocking
in the water?
Or a better question,
why can’t we
use a fresh word
when they do?
Sway or swing
or toss would work
if our boat
was in trouble.
Ditto for roll
or reel or heave.
Some of my people
came from islands
and would have
had better words
for what happens
when you add
your weight
to a piece of wood
cradled by water.
Those words are lost
to me now and
I know a teacher
somewhere is wagging
a finger at me
for gently
rocking the boat
in this poem.
But it really
happened,
I could say,
like an earnest
student I taught once,
and anyway didn’t
someone far wittier
than I am once
say proudly
that a cliché
is only a metaphor
that succeeded?
Don’t we still
love a winner
in this country?
If you feel your
finger twitch
like it wants
to wag at me
because this poem
takes the cake
and I must be
pulling your leg,
then the ball
is in your court.
Step up to the plate
and dive right in
on the perils of
stale language
or dead metaphors.
In another poet’s
poem, a tall, dark,
and handsome
hero like myself
would be no hero
at all. But today
I’m the captain
of this boat and
we’re pushing off
from the ramp
into the quiet
waters of the lake
with the most
poetic name.
I wonder if a man
from Nantucket
who relocated
to Ontario gave
this placid lake
in the land of bears
and moose its name.
When I’m on the water
I forget the people
who would ask
me, “Where
are you from?”
with that curious,
and innocent
face they wear.
When I’m on the water
I can forget
the doctor, and others
like her, who would,
if given half a chance,
whisper again
to my mama in her
hospital bed
that maybe she would
be more comfortable
at home with Covid
during an ice storm.
How does that old
Seinfeld joke
go again? “People.
They’re the worst.”
Only one person
lives on this lake
year round. I see
the same three
folks always
standing
looking at God
knows what
when I push away
from shore.
Do they know,
I wonder,
that the lake was
once called Big
Salmon Lake?
Fall to spring
it stays frozen,
but not still,
because below
the floor of ice
hikers snowshoe
across, bass and
perch and trout
sway and heave
like teenagers
at the prom
moving quietly
under the bleachers
of an old gymnasium.
I’ve been rowing
for five minutes now.
At the reception
after the funeral,
my brother
tells the story
of our father
sometimes rowing out
on Lake Mathis
with his tackle and rod
but zero intentions
of catching any fish.
He’d bait his line
half-heartedly and throw
it out and watch
the bobber wobble
this way and that
like his mind that
was now free
from family and bills
and hope and health.
I never meant to keep
writing about you
dad, but here you are
pretending to fish
in my poem.
Don’t worry,
I won’t become
a sad trout
in this poem,
inspecting the sad
worm on your hook
or worse yet,
the bobber. God no,
I won’t be that
white and blue cousin
of Christmas ornaments
attached to your line.
Nine out of ten
bobbers are red and white.
I was going to swap
that blue one for a red,
but I’ve grown fond
of accidents in a way
that you never were.
Anyway, I gotta go
back to my lake
and this poem,
but thanks
for stopping by
all the same.
I’m sure I’ll see you
again before long.
The wake of my boat,
the trees, the clouds,
the day, they all look
just like they did
a couple of days ago
and all the days
before that. I haven’t
said much about
the colors of my lake.
Would you guess
that a depressive
favors a gray film
on all the shades
of the color wheel?
Not this one.
If Wes Anderson
sold crayons, my bag
would be filled
with coloring books.
Kiwi green trees
with egg brown trunks
crowd under
coconut white clouds
against cotton
candy pink skies
turning blueberry.
Somehow all of this
comforts me, calms
my nervous system
that stays stuck
on high alert
but now the clouds
are frozen
and the water
is still, even
though my arms
are moving…
-Buffering-
-Buffering-
I keep rowing
and my eye
drifts up to
the stone stairs
in the giant
poster behind
the frozen
monitor that’s
like an escape
hatch for me
when I am away
from my family.
The stairs go
up and bend
to the right
into a bright
green forest
of bamboo.
When I was a boy,
a soft wind
caressing bamboo
leaves was my
silky lullaby.
This is why
in my dreams
the last few steps
to heaven have
bamboo on both sides.
Not like sentries,
but more like concierge
offering to take
your coat and carry
your luggage up
to the suite you’ve
been waiting for
all your life.
The screen pops
and the boat is moving
again. With every
stroke I push farther
away from heaven.
I’m on the center
of the lake now.
I want a lake like this
for us. I want
to walk onto the deck
in my robe, a drowsy
sun dreaming under
its blanket of clouds
while I nurse a smooth
chai in my mug.
I want to look out
on a slow morning
and watch the rower
with a camera
fastened to the prow,
recording this slice
of paradise for city
folks like me
who only have time
to row on a machine
in the fitness center
of their hotel.
-Buffering
-Buffering-
-Please Refresh
the Screen-
-System Update-
-Reboot-
The black screen
comes back to life
after a few long
minutes of nothing.
I scroll through
the menu
looking for my lake:
Lake Bled,
lakes Lucerne, Como,
Shojiko, Lugano,
even the river Thames
is here to help me
get my heartrate up.
When I find it,
I notice that in small
letters under Lake
Limerick, it says,
Washington, USA.
I unstrap my feet
from the machine
and towel my face
and neck. My phone
tells me Limerick Lake
is in Ontario,
but the Lake Limerick
I’ve been rowing
is the private body
of water for a private
community on the
Olympic Peninsula.
Instead of moose
and bear and snow-
shoes, it hosts
well over
eleven hundred
unique waterfront
homes. Lord, even
in my daydreams,
this country
won’t let me be.
