A journal of narrative writing.
Looking Glass Falls

We'd driven many hours, five of us

packed into a Honda CRV, ac blowing,

bluegrass tape blaring-my brother-in-law

at 300 lbs. riding shotgun by my husband,

and our two, almost grown sons & me

stuffed into the narrow back seat.

When we finally unloaded at the Falls,

tumbling into the thick, warm air, each

of us went a separate way, understandably.


So after descending the moss-covered stairs

and rocks, I sat alone on a damp boulder

near the base of the Falls, while others

tromped downstream. I could see them

scatter-dark pebbles in the distance-

stepping through the cold water.


And because it was almost evening,

the sun slanted in hazy rays, a kind

of fog-light, surreal in its density,

like a poorly focused photograph,


& I, included in its frame, yet out of it,

found myself strangely snapped free-

of worry? remorse? can't say.


But I was a child again, then 20, 40, 70,

all confused-as if time were a fake thing,

& death or birth could be upon us, torqued

together, currents of light on a moving stream.


My heart knotted & unknotted, like a hand

fisted when giving blood. But it wasn't fear

or loss I felt, or really anything abstracted-

thankfully. It was, in fact, nothing I could speak

about, even here, in the privacy of a poem.