My father built the cabin by the river
himself, and built me a treehouse
on the riverbank and two kinds of swings:
one with a tire you sit on and one to hang
on upright. We found a wounded duckling
near the pond, and nursed it back to health.
I scraped my sternum raw on the styrofoam boogie board, shot arrows,
and played a game with darts now outlawed;
relieved myself in a bucket
or an outhouse.
It was not a good place for menses,
with no running water, due to a burst pipe
never fixed, but the meals outstanding, barbecue
on charcoal or wood my parents doused with gasoline
and threw a match at. We ate prime steaks and my mother
made cheese sauce on the electric stove to put on the baked potatoes,
with salad and corn from our garden up the hill.
We had a fishing boat we'd take out to camp
on sandbars, and my father would seine for minnows
and release armadas of crawdads.
He planted hundreds of trees by hand on that one acre,
and fed dozens of cats. The neighbor's dog used to carry
them around in his mouth, gently, a form of recreation
for each party.
My parents wanted to build their dream
home there and I don't remember
when I realized that railroad bridge
Dad put a hundred sparklers
on for 4th of July
the one with the walkway
added when that boy and girl
jumped to their death
to avoid the train,
would become a highway
over the river connecting
two sides of the city.
Our sky a modest scope and scale:
not too big, and not too small.
Cornflower is a portal,
(upright, uptight), as any local bee
can tell us; vying with violet;
eyeing the iris, flagrant with fragrance.
They call that desert acaí and those Maine ones super-
foods, but our neither-black-nor-red rasp-
berries are tasty, too, sown by the bird
best known for happiness.
labeled Prussian, French, or Caribbean
mirror pools more lake-like than ocean.
Our noise is not so white:
a robin's Easter eggshell,
pastel as our blood,
less royal than loyal.
I told my colleague
that, in the world,
he and I are the 1%;
He said, oh I guess
that may be what the world
thinks, and I said no
it's a true fact
I mean to say: math.
He and I generally reject
most reductive paradigms
is what it is, believe
it or not. This is not a protest poem
nor love song or break
up text. I can't quit
you, so why pretend
this is/I am/we are not
Jungians call the (Higher) Self
"capital S"or "Big S" Self,
with winks and chuckles.
The bots will overwrite
us, but in the mean
time we will optimize
as we outsource
ity and co-exist
like true crime
and true romance.