In the Ozark foothills, central Missouri,
a river called the Gasconade
flows south to north through woods and farmland—
feed corn, cattle, wild ponies, hay.
In winter, it floods. When my grandpa died,
the river rose in driving rain.
The tourist cabins at Indian Ford
were swept off their foundations, floated away.
Spring blooms the dogwood and redbud trees
that lean over the river, gravel-bottom and clear.
The towns are small, most folks are related.
You can’t get away with anything.
Summers, the relatives gather and drive
to the river’s edge, setting up under
the ironwork bridge. On lawn chairs arranged
around a stick fire, their talk meanders
much like the calf who trotted through town
past the WPA courthouse and Catholic church,
crossed the highway, toured the cemetery,
and kept on going. The women lean back
in chairs as they listen, lolled on one hip
and the opposite elbow, occasionally making
a snort of derision while the men tip back Pabst,
light cigarettes. The kids are swinging
from ropes tied to cottonwoods into the river,
splashing and swimming. Marshmallows on whittled
sticks set afire raise blisters and burns.
Ticks, chiggers, mosquitos are biting,
lightning bugs shine in palms and glass jars.
The river ripples, catches the moon
that silvers the trees. The last of the ice chest
is poured on the fire, chairs and blankets
are tossed into trunks and pickup trucks.
Good night. Good night. Goodbye. Good night.
After folks leave, the riverbank’s quiet.
Head above water, a cottonmouth swims
by a necklace of catfish strung on a trotline.
Deer kneel down, velvet nose and ears twitching.
Do they dream of the shotguns and rifles of fall?
What is it to me that these memories linger?
I’m older now than any of them,
those cousins and grannies who laughed and argued
as mist rose and rolled like smoke on the river.
Good night. Good night. Goodbye. Good night.
Arkansas Review, Summer 2023