Dancing Above the Bull Branch
by Margaret Haberman
We heard the news that fires were burning
in the mountains near your home. A friend said
you packed up your wife and son, drove to town,
left them there, went back to the cabin,
threw water on the tall grass, moved
your beloved dory closer to the wide stream.
I still think of you, from time to time. In casual
conversation, your name comes up. People glide over
the fact of your Russian bride, a son you surely adore.
They remember you back when you built your dory,
took it down the Colorado River in winter—
a man, two oars, and a handmade wooden boat.
April out in western Maine that spring we met, near
Morrison Farm, beneath Sunday River Whitecap, high
above the Bull Branch—the big room of the old camp.
You, leaning against a white meat freezer—
coat zipped, arms folded, ankles crossed.
Everywhere we turned there was mud.
A landscape of brown and grey, snow old and grainy.
Your coat bright blue, casual against that freezer,
the brightest star in a motley constellation of paddlers,
climbers, hangers-on. Remember dancing?
Cassette tapes, boom box plugged into the wall
of the old kitchen, camp dining room cleared
of tables. You said, Put your palm here. That way
I can control where you’re going. Bette Midler singing
In the Mood, Count Basie’s Chattanooga Choo Choo.
I was a silk scarf of a girl with my hand on the small of
your back. Barely twenty seven, following every step.
When the music stopped, we sat down
in thin metal chairs and put our shoes on. I know,
that was not the ending. We walked up the long hill
to the tiny cemetery on Paradise Road. Stood in the parking
lot of the pub. That summer I saw you on the cliffs in Acadia.
You wrote a letter I did not keep.
After news of the fire, my husband told stories
of watching you paddle down the Colorado.
He said, He was the best. Someone else wanted
to know if your wife was a mail order bride.
I said, He could dance. Everyone got quiet,
looked at me. So I said it again. He could dance.
Out there in the mountains of Washington,
with your bride, mother of your child, I hope the fires
are under control. I hope they play music, sing
old jazz songs. I hope there’s someone to follow.
