Poetry By
Barbara Archer
Published on: 4/4/2006
After the Fall
Come winter, you've drawn in uponyourself. Sitting across from me at the kitchen table your shoulders hunched, your eyes hooded against the new cold creeping though the cracks. Just two months since we held hands on the trail up to the peak that promised a view of four counties, trying to stay abreast on a path just wide enough for one. We took it for a rock, the rough half-dome in the middle of thetrail till, closer, we saw it for what it was: box turtle lying flat to the path. "Is it dead?" I asked, somehow fearing to know. Wordless, you squatted to just touch the edge, a gentle push meant to inspire the thing to chance a look around. "Stubborn," you said, determined to turn the creature over, risking the beak for the sight of a craning neck and waving limbs. We had to laugh, though the red eyes' glare took me aback. What were we doing, exposing the soft parts of this beast that had to hide them to be safe? "It's a boy," you said. "The red eyes tell you that." We were still too new for me to have guessed the depths of what you knew, and I wondered what else you could tell me: which mushrooms are safe to eat, how to tell a hemlock from a spruce. I wondered, Could you rub two sticks together and make fire? Save us from a bear? Our own fire burned hot then. In the kitchen now, with December blowing up a storm, I pile more wood in the stove and I look back to catch a last glimpse of your soft-bellied self before you pull the shell down over it.
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