Peter Markus

This Water, This Rock and Dirt, This River

I was made by water. This river. 

This erosion of rock and dirt. This water 

making mud. I have seen the fish 

that do not rise from this river’s murky 

bottom. I have seen smokestacks  

no longer puffing smoke. Have seen

the loon’s webbed feet pushing against

this current, its diving head, wanting

not to be seen. I have heard these birds

calling across this water, a widow’s

unveiled wailing to reach her husband,

this man standing alone in the fog in winter

waiting patiently on the river’s other side.

***

Everything Where I Have Left It

What is so different about this house

when it is dark? Which is how I prefer it.

When there is not so much to see. 

The trees outside in shadow. The sky

not so stark and apparent. The mystery

of things unseen even just across this room.

What I know is right here remaining unchanged. 

Everything where I have left it. Waiting

to be eventually thrown out. Like the dead.

Like how they came and took away my father

when it was time. When my voice into the phone

told them what had happened. When I said

my father has died. Is dead. How otherwise say it?

How outside it was still light out. How inside

everything had suddenly become so clear.

So certain. Like the water I brought back up

to the house from the river. The weight

of the glass in my hand. Such utter clarity 

when I held it up to the light. The way the sun 

shined through. And yes, made it sparkle.

What was visible that night aside from the stars.

Not the loons calling out across the river.

Not the heart alone in its own dark house.

***  

I Did Not Hear the Loons Until Later

The bird on the buoy does not need to know

we are watching. Or that across the river

there is a small boat turned over on its side 

for the winter. The fish are here with us

even if we don’t see them. When the water

makes a sound it is only to remind us perhaps

that it is moving, that sometimes the wind

changes the way we see it. When my father

finally died I did not hear the loons right away. 

Only later. When I stood down at the docks

and looked. Then heard them first. Then saw

what was behind that sound. Which wasn’t human.

That cry. That calling out. But was the closest  

to what I felt when I closed my eyes and decided 

in the dark of night that I had seen enough.

*** 

When the Light Is Still Present but Fading

Each day begins in the dark. Night comes 

when the light is still present but fading. 

Across the river my father in bed sleeping.

Possibly dreaming. Sometimes talking

to those he counts among the already dead.

His own mother and father. An older sister.

All three of them waiting at the edges of dawn.

He stood above them all in their own beds.

Now they hover near I imagine watching.

Maybe even reaching out to touch his hand.

To say it’s okay, he’ll be coming home soon.

Until then my mother wakes up with the dark.

Already alone. But not prepared for what is

coming. A house on the water. And solitude.

The sound in her ear ticking away the silence.

When daylight rises it is always behind her.

The sun breaking through the trees. The river

slowly becoming bluer than it actually is.

***

Just Water 

Out to dinner with my wife and kids

when the waitress asks us what we want 

to drink. I am already drinking is what

my heart’s voice wants to tell her.

This is my water. I am a horse

at the edge of a river with his head

bowed in what can only be called prayer.

More from the author at Dzanc Books