Riverboat

by Anders Carlson-Wee

I traveled in a boat with a blindfolded woman,
but we only had one pair of oars.

She rowed the boat down a shallow, brisk river,
I stood in the bow keeping watch.

When the river would bend, I’d call out an order—
Row left! Row left! And her breath would release.

Then there were stumps poking up through the water—
Dead ahead! Dead ahead! And an oarlock would creak.

We brushed against cattail reeds in the shallows,
pollen and dander hovered loose in the air.

I squinted at driftwood in the rushing of eddies,
listening for the sound of her rocking behind me.

She dragged the oars through the undertow currents,
hearing the gurgle of water and the call of my voice.

If only my voice could command it to snow,
if only the river could turn cold and stiffen,

if our boat and our oars could be stuck in that winter,
if I could have just one moment to look at her hair,

I would close my eyes to the river, and hold her hand, and be still.

Anders Carlson-Wee is studying creative writing at Fairhaven College. He also studies tree climbing, rollerblading, backpacking, bike touring, epic snacking, photography, and film. He gains his inspiration from human interaction and physical movement.

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