I teach my niece Elizabeth
to let down her oars,
then pull and lift with mine.
Our wake smooths
like a tail. Elizabeth says
we are a dragonfly,
double-oared. I think
we are an old woman,
our low whaler spreading
the reeds with wide hips,
sloshing hollow.
Elizabeth talks nonsense
about Indians from Moscow
who spray their hair
with Raid. She imagines
molecules, red against
green, jostling the lake
like Jell-O. Sure.
And there were wildcats once
across the road, eating
the Knowles’s chickens
and eating the loser of
hide-and-seek, who
would be thrown to
the night by the boys.
Flashlight/night,
lofting and sinking, we make
these exultations of oars.
We’re always close to flying.
We always plan to fly.