Interims
For
the stream full of rain, the creek, the canal, the pond, the river;
For
the Great blue heron; the perfect ease of the wings spread just above
the water and the
veined paths in the canal-scum its wading left behind;
And
the water grass combed down by the canal current; and the fish—
the little fish—living their
little fish lives in the canal;
And
the owl hooting in the glen: thank you.
Thank
you for the insects who feed the bird’s songs and whose own shrill
songs—rising
falling rising
again—keep time in the summer
and sometimes sound like the birds do;
Thank
you for the woodpecker’s surprising percussion, reverberating like a
doorstop
spring through
the trees;
And
the still pond, broken only by peeking turtles and flitting water-skimmers;
Thank
you for the half-exposed rocks and roots stitched across the dirt path; and
the
crossing of two
paths in the wood; and the impenetrability of the
underbrush I will not enter;
Thank
you for the little pebbles I find wedged in the soles of my shoes,
days later.
And
the gossamer strands of spider webs that catch unexpectedly on my arms
and
face, letting me
know I am first this morning;
And
the ground littered with fallen trees;
And
the squirrels chirping; and the careful line of deer grazing;
And
the wet smell of rotting logs feeding the dirt;
And
the single leaf (harbinger of fall) cascading through air to the ground;
Thank
you for the thickets of tall reeds and marshmallow-topped cattails where
the
tadpoles grow;
and the muddy canal bottom made from dead plants and
dead things
Thank
you for the overhanging branches;
And
thank you for the blue-skinned potato-fruit
that became too heavy for their
stems, detached and fell to the path, for me to
find.
Vietnam Night Train
I remember the station
its plastic bucket seats
bolted in rows filling
with other people
lugging luggage
while the hands on the clock
moved past our time
of departure and still
no train and yet
grinning dry swallowing
the Xanax Nick gave me.
The rush of feet
and voices made it clear
it was time to act.
Two thin bunks hung
on each wood paneled wall—
the surprise of beds
made tight with wool blankets
for us. And falling fully clothed
onto my bottom bunk in the dark
berth and grinning again because
the train was moving now
and laughing aloud with Nick
and Justin and I can’t remember
the fourth guy but
a knock on the door
and that girl Emma appeared
insisting we keep it down cause
we can hear everything
you’re saying which
made me laugh louder.
Adam Pollak is an MFA candidate and College Writing Instructor at American University. His poems have most recently appeared in Little Patuxent Review, The Allegheny Review, and Prairie Margins. He lives—quite happily—outside of Washington, D.C. with his wife and puppy.
