Rivers

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Rivers
By Bonnie Enes

The black dog and I walk along River's edge, she weaves

through tall grasses. We flush out that scent of earth
leaves, twigs water fermenting.

Sitting on River's bed, I breathe deeply again and again

uncover that smell of River's bottom surfacing through
whirlpools, the smell forms a phlegm in my throat

of childhood summers in New Hampshire on another
River. I swallow sultry summer afternoons, trawling

with grandfather, trying to catch sweet-tasting catfish
coming up with muck instead earth, leaves, twigs, inky

water drool down my arms, return to River.

Sitting on River's bed, I hear a babbling from around

the bend, giggles of a teenage summer when Judy
and I shed our bathing suits, inch into the cold wetness,

submerge ourselves in the boldness of something
strange washing over our tender, glistening bodies.

Sitting on River's bed, I breathe deeply the scent of that

last summer -- cut short. Swirls scented with dampness
desire, maleness fermenting, surface in the summer heat

as the young man dressed in jeans and white T-shirt
with the sleeves rolled up asks me to dance all night and

later his scent invades my dreams during the steaming
August night.

The next afternoon, the young man in jeans and white T-shirt

stands above where I swim in River. My grandfather, stands
on the hill above him, watches as I drift out of River to

the young man in jeans and white T-shirt and smelling
of musk.