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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. |
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Document last modified on: 12/09/2006