Wild ones

(Idaho, October 2024)

I let them go.
They rise in my mind
inconveniently, in parking lots,
on bridges, driving over mountain passes.

While my knuckles are wrapped,
when my hands are full, 
when my boss is explaining something.
Lines  spring from vacant lots in my mind
where I could house important things, 
like my sister’s birthday
or the blonde woman’s first name.

When poetry happens to me 
without pen or paper,
I remember whale-watching
with Joanna near Orcas Island.

We left our cameras in our pockets.
Congratulating ourselves, we were present.
Embracing our superiority, we judged 
other passengers, fumbling viewfinders,
clicking one moment too late.

We strained our eyes 
to see through the sky's reflection 
and into the deep.

A killer whale the size of a bus
breached the cold ocean surface.
We cried, dramatically wiping our eyes.
Like it was a miracle.
Like we were saved.

My free poems are animals too.
Untrapped grizzly bears and raven,
beastly and beautiful.
Stanzas rise like cranes from a field
every time a barista asks for my order.
I don’t cast nets or set traps.
I wait for the poems to surrender on paper.
I wait for them to lay themselves
gently at my desk, or on the table 
next to the pink sofa, or 
in the rocking chair on the porch.