Crick

‘Hush your mouth,’

Mama said, ‘the word is creek.’

But Mama creek is

split wood meeting air

and crying out for the bark

it once  knew. Creek is the

taste of a caught breath

of a skipped heart

beat. But Mama

crick is - ‘Creek!’

but Mama crick is -

Mama. Mama listen,

the sound of water

meeting stone: plip,

rush - ‘Hush!’ - crick.

I remember water

hitting the sides of

my paper mache boat,

the open earth parting,

roots climbing, reach

out over the waves’

and my head, tickling

tops of our noses. Crick

is that place in the woods

where the sun can’t touch

the ground and nothing

burns and the leaves

fall and the branches

laugh and Mama don’t

you remember that?

Remember that.