By Alex Rieser
At that area of the zoo where they keep the elephants
He’s spinning his little body
Around the base of three umbrellas
On the bench across
A path-splitting patch of sego palms
Las maestras pen their words
I’ll never get to read
My hands are empty
Sometimes, I get by with
nothing, I can
get by with anything; sometimes,
I get by with less. God, I worry something
might seek us rid.
Let me tell you, hiking
Up a small mountain in Moab
Trailing my son, the toddler, by ten paces
When the monsoon spiraled in
Minutes of thick mud
His little boots entrenched
Halfway to the peak, I looked
back to the van
A half-mile down to the road
The rain picking up his face
All cries and quivers
Hoofing-back double-time
In the brown sleet before hail, he
In my arms, nothing below me
But distance for a boot to grip.
It does not come without consequence
Knowing that it is because you
Will be after me
That ensures you surpass. Above me.
I carry you knowing that it is you
Who carries the world
For those who did not have the chance to
On the drive home, the moon is passing
through a direction I’m not used to:
(And just because they’ve heard what you have to say
Doesn’t make it any less worth saying: people
Still sing songs they know the words to)
But our gods are compatible
And I’ve followed your breath
Like the slipping wind of gale.
I brought an ocean in my hands
To drown us with, dear reader, I know you’ll return
An old master, to ask me why we didn’t.
Alex Rieser lives and writes in San Diego, CA. His current project is a comparison of benefit achieved by noise reduction strategies in cochlear implants using 4-and 20-talker babble noise. More on Twitter @AlexRieser or at www.alexrieser.wordpress.com.
