The towns of my childhood sloped

across the shoulders of the state

like the fringe of a shawl

curving across the heart,

 

towns sheltered among red-clay hills

where the Appalachians knelt down,

mist rising like supplication

as they stretched out their hands,

 

spread fingers to form banks of rivers

with names like Coosa, Tallapoosa,

Etowah, and of lakes named Purdy

and Guntersville and Alexander,

 

and the smaller bodies of water

we children loved: Harper’s Branch,

Buck Creek, and the creek with no name,

the one where we challenged each other,

 

members of The Girls’ Adventure Club–

No Boys Allowed, to walk the log

that spanned the banks, the one we knew

that Linda was afraid to cross. 

 

From our stance of success, we looked

at her through the fringe of our lashes,

a silent, measuring squint. Her shoulders

drooped, and she sank to her knees,

 

eyes clouded with a moisture

that began to lift as she stretched out

upon the fallen tree, fingers clutching

the rough bark. Pulling herself along,

 

pushing with her feet,

she reached the other side. 

 

This poem won 1st Honorable Mention in the 2008 Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ Triad contest, Theme: Water.
Used here with the author’s permission.