Upon Hearing 56 Miles of the L.A. River Will
Become a State Park
by Martin Ott
The
river cleaves us,
it
brings us two shores.
Snoozing
smog,
moon-blooming
jasmine.
Green
water,
brown
water.
Egrets,
airplanes.
On
an atoll a man sits
cross-legged,
wearing
a
plastic bag
as a
hat, meditating
to
the cars grazing overhead.
Largemouth and catfish
are showing on hooks.
A little bit of everything,
but not a lot of anything.
The
river leaves us,
it
darts through our veins.
Jacaranda,
coffee
table.
Burning
bush,
fragrant
weed.
We
are Hercules bending
mountain
streams
in
our fists,
a
child bending
over
sidewalk to learn
the
language of roots.
Try crawdads and waterdogs
for bass, powerbait
for trout and search
the high lakes for bluegill.
The
river has forgotten
its
way to the sea.
You
can stare at a man
in a
plastic hat
for
hours
and
still not see
the
same waters twice.
Our
children bring the river
to
school in a box.
A
dripping faucet
frightens
us awake
late
at night.
Nightcrawlers are working
best. Bass are biting
on spinner baits and plastic
worms. Some red-eared perch.
The
river wishes it had
no
bottom but man.
Drowning
in air,
breathing
sea salt.
Casting
a net,
capturing
ourselves.
Staring
up through placenta
we
see God.
Examining
our children,
the
death of the river
can't
be far behind.
Fly fishermen are using
nymphs.
Catfish are so-so.
Bluefish are starting
to show at the cattails.
The
river is naked.
We
hum its song in the night.
Grass
rises,
concrete
recedes.
Fish
feed
in
our untested depths.
Two
banks are connected
by a
park bridge.
What
man will we find
there
on the atoll?
Pack up tackle and bait,
wash knives at the shore.
A slight rain is forecast.
Look into the depths.
The
river cleaves us,
the
river leaves us.
The
river has forgotten,
the
river wishes.
The
river is naked.
It
brings us two shores,
it
darts through our veins.
It
makes its way to the sea
with
no bottom but man.
We
hum its song in the night.
first
published on ForPoetry.com