fallen angels in the west branch narraguagus

she recalls don knotts in that movie where he becomes a fish
after he left mayberry, of course.
he wears a thin lapelled tweed suit jacket, black bow tie
makes fish lips.
translucent dream or memory – aquarium glass
she slid snug against its chilled pane
eased osmotically through a viscous veil.
she wanted to be a fish too & often played one
swimming through living rooms, dens, kitchens
with warm floors from a glenwood stove in the cellar
cranking against nor’easters dropping several feet of powder.
school days home a rarity that allowed her to don rubber fins,
mask & snorkel, air tanks constructed from quaker oats cylinders
& kite twine.

storms ago – drownings ago-ago-ago-
she cannot hold anymore dying hands
anchored to volcanic sea beds chained to grief boulders
drag her soul currents. fish-lips-kiss wet freedom.
she slips from apparatus, gills flange, tail undulates,
swim the distance to wherever souls like her’s swim.
vahalla, or hel or sky boats that leap from cold oceans
jump the boundaries into fresh water
sloop beneath star bridges where stark air is a jolted intake
a surprise gasp, a disbelief, the shape of wild
careening osprey wings skimming
in arched glide along game trails and river’s wend

a bear snort shoves off a hefty presence near river’s edge
where she found the spring, a shove off to disperse souls walking
through mosquito swarms salmon, bass & trout break surface to feed on
& just that moment, her puckered lips break through life’s veneer
& hears bird trills, fluttering wings, fibrillating hearts,
minnows schooling ‘round feet nipping toes exotic pedicure.
she welcomes the prickle of autumn water
exalts dispersion from alveoli to alveoli, tree to tree,
a flock of birds her breath settles.

she wonders whose gurgle she hears, thrusts her legs,
launches power upward, a ventriloquist throwing their voice
around corners, behind the cabin, over stones.
with opened mouthed kiss, round with desperation,
poised to take it all in – a pileated woodpecker
announces territory in staccatic calls & silences.
up through fresh river brine
her milk white moon face pearl face bobber face
surfaces. she is grateful
for revelations tugged by fish, a heavy life line connecting her
to the final weeks before hard frost that settle gravitas.

she wants her salmon self to keep swimming up stream
keep gaining strength, nuzzle the otter mud shoreline.

 

 



Click here to read Suzanne S. Rancourt on the origin of the poem.

Image by Nikunj Singh on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.

Suzanne S. Rancourt:

All of my writing, regardless of genre or presentation format, is inherently rooted in the natural world. Whether reflecting my relationship as a child being raised in rural west central Maine or currently residing on my few acres in the Adirondacks of New York.

I am grateful to Nature Culture’s Writing the Land Project for the artist fellowship opportunity in September 2021 that took me back to Maine, specifically, to 608 acres of DSF land trust called, Sprague Falls Preserve. After canoeing in I hunkered down for several days of solo writing, communing, breathing, and being.

Coming out of covid was difficult not because of re-integrating into social engagements. To the contrary, I didn’t want to leave my mountains, forests, rivers, and all the creatures therein. While habituating there at the Boar’s Nest, (I was born year of the Boar,) I gave myself permission to recollect freely as the natural world inspired all of my senses to awaken.

Where there is profound beauty, it isn’t uncommon to find it’s opposite and the west branch Narraguagus was no exception having been used for log drives, the bottom still reddish with decades of sloughed tree bark. The land reminded me that I was a dry birth and how ironic that is for a Pisces who has drowned and been resuscitated more than once. The spirit of the land and its creatures inspired me to give voice to them through empathizing our shared traumas and profound appreciation and gratitude for not just survival, for life itself.

Suzanne S. Rancourt
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