the tailrace

tailraceInside the power house, overlooking the tailrace at Ryan Dam

My daughter married last month. My son married this month last year. I saw the minute hand move. Click.

Watches. Alarms. Clocks. Turbines spinning water into power. You can’t follow me here, said the man with the hard hat, the flashing tail lights. But my father told me to follow him through the gate anyway. Just go. And so I did. I drove my father’s van through the opened No Trespassing gate, my mother protesting in the front passenger seat that the hard hat man wasn’t going to recognize my father, sitting in the back seat. You just can’t go where you want to go, Bill, she said.

And when the hard hat man in his large white pickup saw us in his mirror, he turned around to confront us. I know, I’ve always known, the hows and whens to stop. It’s going forward that keeps me still.

Hello, Bill, the man said. Through his opened window, through my father’s, wound-down. Of course they knew each other. At one time, my father was the boss of this power camp. At one time, I was the little girl, Bill’s middle child, running through the camp, climbing cliffs, keeping a measured distance from the waterfalls.

Can you break a spell by yielding to it? This river has always had her way with me. Running through me when what I wanted was distance from her roar. She must have had a good war, this Missouri river. What it has taken for her to still be here, carving through landscape of wheat and rising yeast. Red stone, brittle shale. Dams strapped against her swell.

**

The Montana Girl Speaks of Water
                                                             after Langston Hughes

My soul has grown deep like
the rivers. The curl of eddies and bays

pool inside. I retreat downriver, into the spray
of the Crooked Falls, climb rock

cliffs, toeing dirt, sliding down
banks into the graveyard

memories of the familiar wide
lazy shoreline of my youth, retracing steps

skipped out with the verve and the snap
little girls had back in the day, still

wading in shallow water, my cuffs rolled
and my muddy elbows,

dreaming all the world was one
cool, shin-high ripple.

(Previously published at Babel Fruit)

*

Tailrace: The part of a millrace or the like through which the spent water flows

 

 

Advertisements

About redmitten

author of Cracking Geodes Open, Making Good Use of August, and The Peppermint Bottle. poetry editor for IthacaLit. website: https://toomuchaugust.wordpress.com

9 responses to “the tailrace

  1. Joyce

    Oh, such a poem takes me home.

  2. redmitten

    joyce, i am glad to hear that. thank you!

  3. Maureen

    Not a word out of place or out of tune. Both lovely pieces.

  4. amandasummer10

    I like this conversation with a river. I’ve spoken with the Missouri myself, standing on her banks in a lonely prairie town, seeing her life flash by my eyes.

    Congrats on your daughter’s wedding. My daughter was married this summer as well.

    • redmitten

      amanda, good to hear from you. our lives continue to parallel. congratulations to you as well on your daughter’s wedding. these moments are filled with joy. and now we share that river.

  5. You have such a way of conveying your past with present nature, both human and worldly.

and then you said:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 52 other followers

%d bloggers like this: