The River, and: Elegies of Gathering, and: Self-Portrait as Fly Fisherman, and: Devil's Walking Stick

Abstract

The River, and: Elegies of Gathering, and: Self-Portrait as Fly Fisherman, and: Devil's Walking Stick Benjamin Cutler (bio) THE RIVER Mother had chosen two names, but when she heardthe thirst in my first cry, she touched her lips to mineand whispered a third in the language of water. She knew by then that a name sinks into a bodyand becomes a shady bower, a flowering grove, or a massgrave—and she thought to let me choose. But the choice does not matter; the same wide river runs through them all,and though I have given it every name I know, it refusesto be anything other than river: river of gray; river of green;river of gold; river of every season's turn; river where the silent,silver heron glides over the white bends and every long day; river where the voiceless, copper trout, who have no namefor themselves, never mistake a fallen petal or fall leaffor a fly; river where the mayflies rise from their hatch like glittering, unspoken prayer; river of rest. Come, sitwith me on every bank; we will fill our naked, nameless thirst.This river is as cool as a new day's morning and never still— it will lose nothing to our cupped palms and ardent, ready lips. [End Page 75] ELEGIES OF GATHERING IWhen I first heard the father, I mistookhis lamentation for laughter. How could I—a boy who had lost nothing, not even his way—know anything of how a heart can crackagainst the belly, spill from the mouth, and thickenthe air? I should tell you they sat in the kitchenand how the mother took my hand—her workhardenedthumbs against my un-calloused knuckles—and wet my wrist with her tear-softened cheek.Don't ever be so stupid, so stupid, don't ever be, she said,and because I could not stand the sight of griefmingled with promise, I looked away into the basketheldsilence of her fresh brown eggs—gathered by herson the morning before we gathered to mourn him. IIThese counted years later, I—a man who has not losteverything—can think only of the chickens, our threehens lost in the dusk of last summer's storm;of how the drenched dark kept them from the roost'sdry refuge; of how they did not return in the dawn'sclean light, the light of a rainless day; and of how we bakedthe last of their laying into a cake as sweet as forgivenessand ate it warm with our bare and blameless hands. [End Page 76] IIIDid I tell you there were eggs in the kitchen where grieffilled the air like laughter? Did I tell you how griefand laughter both begin in the belly? Watch with me, love:I see a father and a mother the morning aftera night of rain. She takes three eggs—no, two—in her practiced hands, cracks and whips them wellinto a buttered pan. He fries, salts, and serves—a shared meal from a shared plate. Did I tell you, love—yes, I must have—how a belly promises only to emptyand always knows what it needs? Can you see them, love?Yes, you must now. They cry (or laugh) as they sharewhat steams between them. He washes, she dries, they walkoutside—walk together to gather the new day'seggs in the early morning fog, enough light to see the lovewornway through bowing grass, enough to reach into a nestand feel what is round, warm, and not yet broken. [End Page 77] SELF–PORTRAIT AS FLY FISHERMAN He stands still and the creek does not—a waist-deep shortcut to nowhere. An arm, bareto the elbow, nudges the morning fog. A thread of watershinetongues the air. The impossible reach, his expectant watch.O to hold in your careful grip this perilous truth and finesseits length into a grace: longing is a long line stretchedand taut in the current—hidden, wet and waiting. The tugof a phantom...