Jane Medved

Follow the river and you will get to the sea

says the proverb but today is not flowing any which way
and if you've traveled the Mississippi you'd know there are
tree stumps logs hazardous debris submerged sudden
sandbars collapsing riverbanks heavy with traffic our houseboat
had a leak Dwain came to save us so we bought him a drink
this was after we crashed into the dock giggling we had a map
and one short lesson on what to avoid by those who had gone
before us it was almost summer warm enough to take our tops
off sunbathe for the barges towing back and forth up and down
there was no shame in having a young body one length away
from dry land with no plan but now the current keeps me afloat
some days and some days it pulls me under   

In the time before the rainy season,
in the days of dust and pollen
when olives dropped straight to the pavement
and clocks became unreliable,
their minutes spilling like old coins
using the last currency of hours.
In the time of splinter and repair,
in the year of the war and the war
before that, when we grabbed hold
of every beginning but the endings
were always beyond us, we wandered
the wreck of imagination looking
for bits of the future. There were so many
stories, only some could be told
over and over, like a lesson no one wanted
to learn. But let me tell you, there were
treasures as well: a scatter of pink petals
by the front gate where I waited for the next
delivery of medicine. They look just like
butterflies, the driver said. Don't they?  

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