Alive on Cuckold Creek I
My thalassophobic daughter monitors
my adventures. I’m known to cross unfamiliar
waters, over my head, with wind, stinging
invertebrates, and at times little steam.
We doubt she could save me from my own wild
or threats below. She resists walking
onto the dock, settles on the porch, immerses
herself in different dangers — TikToks on climate
change, being young and radically considerate.
We doubt I could save her either, my futile
suggestions for 20th century pastimes, my worry
and generosity. But like my mom says before I hit I-95
going 110 kilometers per hour for ten hours,
Call when you get home.
Her old jalopy shakes above 50 and seems
to have narcolepsy. No one points out the inanity
of the ask. We smile and hug and maybe
thoughts of her waiting prop my eyes open
against lullaby of tires in the drowsy last stretch
of Maryland. Maybe my girl looks up from
the news to watch me glide just before being crushed
by the story’s punchline. The ways we save each other,
keep us afloat. As the sky blushes pink, I turn
home to her, despite temptation to head into night.
(Thalassophobia is fear of deep water.)
Alive on Cuckold Creek II
for Coley
In its grazing rock and marsh splendor
nothing invites abandon like water. I will
go in, be rocked, claim buoyancy. I promise
to be careful, as heartened by your concern
as I am the glinting creek. We watch the bloom
of jellyfish from the dock and I understand
to protect my skin. Drag a kayak through muck
until free to glide. Later you ask, Didn’t you
take the dead crabs at the edge as a sign? or how you
fell in mud? Oddly, I did not. My mission
was clear — take to water.
The Great Blue Heron doesn’t flinch as I approach.
He looks into the middle distance, watching
souls mingle with clouds. The reptile I mistake
for a crocodile slithers closer, a spirit guide
past piers and chairs until light peeking from
cabins are left with plastic and metal far behind.
It’s just me, current, and other creatures inhaling
earthen musk in brackish water I scoop with palms,
to sprinkle on limbs and chest, a kind of baptism.
I turn at the dam, row faster toward your waiting. Plan
to step on the dock to subvert mud — Kablooey!
Don’t remember the tipping or the boat-drag-swim
then creep through sludge. You tell me I cursed a lot.
Don’t remember tentacles brushing my arms and legs
but I burn and itch. I remember you ask, What can I do?
You feed me Sun Chips and wine, poke fun. My
foolhardiness and your care level our dynamic; your
growing up and my return to my pre-Mama offbeat propel us
toward hilarity, connection. You hope I learn
a lesson, but it would be a perfect dream to do it all again.
Nothing invites abandon like water. I go in.
Creative Seeing
for Grace Cavalieri
I know the pull to reach into depths
of dark and heavens. I will
grasp soft, pointed truth of a moment,
a movement. Called by her illumination
of space, color. Her name — a smile,
that guides and propels us toward
the action of words. Such a slight woman
to reach her arms around the whole world —
around laureates, the obscure, every bombshell
and mother. Perhaps she descends
from Aliens to whom some credit
ancient wonders, or she is the wonder, making
Poets feel like miracles walking in a world
of miracles; rendering forms supernatural.
If I’m merely a player, may she be the playwright. Even as
supporting character or as a bad guy, I know I’ll glimmer.
Kristin Kowalski Ferragut writes poetry, songs, short stories and essays. She lives in Maryland where she teaches, plays guitar, sings, rides her bike, and hosts the DiVerse Gaithersburg Poetry Reading and Open Mic. She is author of the full-length poetry collection Escape Velocity (Kelsay Books, 2021) and the children’s book Becoming the Enchantress: A Magical Transgender Tale (Loving Healing Press, 2021). Her poetry has appeared in Beltway Quarterly, Bourgeon, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fledgling Rag, Little Patuxent Review, and Gargoyle Magazine among others. More, including her blog, Poetry & Other Mystical Space, can be found at https://www.kristinskiferragut.com/
Image: Photollama, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
