Causeway
June 22 2010


There is a causeway between 2 lakes.
A thin isthmus of land,
pierced
by a giant steel culvert.
So you can boat out and in,
the water mixes,
the fish
flick to and fro.

Motorboats are forbidden,
but kayaks, canoes slip through.
And rowboats ride low
groaning with fishermen, coolers of beer,
sitting, casting out.

The culvert makes me think of the tunnel of love,
with its intimate echo
the two of us drifting
hidden from sight.
And enchantment, as well —
like underground paddling
an instant umbrella,
free of ice.

I am the last house
on the narrows
before the big lake opens up.
So I live on a river, a lake, a strait
all at once.
And when the wind blasts
lightning cracks the sky,
it feels like a thrill-ride
a house of horrors.
Or a fun-house mirror
when the water is still as glass.

Today, it’s a petting zoo.
Guys in camouflage jackets
hoping to land a fish.
Which they will hold up, delighted,
grip its tail
stroke its side
deftly remove the hook.
Then, with a single whack
crush the skull,
and pack it in ice.

Fish swim through the culvert
oblivious to the massive steel arch,
the shenanigans
of hot-blooded boys
blossoming girls.
Just as they snatch the bait,
unaware
of the lure of the waterless world.