Her Migration to Summer Places
Spawn till you die.
Let’s talk on the phone as much as we can before I leave, my sister says.
She means to the Alaska Bush. Or maybe I posed it. My older twin,
We laugh. Our hound-dog eyelids and bulldog jowls. Wild gray
As kids we foresaw this, this growing up apart, growing old,
Knew we’d laugh. In Time’s face. Time was we drove unbuckled
in the backseat of the car, our mom and dad secure up front,
our toddler brother a tumbling dimpling light next to us—
someone to ruffle and coddle and feed Oreos while we sang
gently down the stream. Leaning hard on her as the car
took its turns along the Turnagain Arm or up Knik Inlet,
I was happy playing the startling slap hands, the perilous chokey,
mysterious cat’s cradle
at the same time in my small belly a pain: every trip ends.
At night in our room, lying on our little pillowed rafts, tight tucked in
a a a a a a a m e e e e e e e en s. Everything we did was practicing.
The usual kittens crushed in the street, red-ear turtles lost in
our goldfish bloated belly-up. We saw the autumn rivers full
bank to bank with the tender decomposing salmon.