Hole in a River

Every trout season

a hole in a river claims a fly

fisherman. They step in one

and their waders fill. Or, children

lose footing—thrash and cough.

But why should there be a hole

in a river that carves,

everywhere else, it’s bottom by laws

of volume, velocity?

Can boulders really be pried out

by a flow of ice? by passing deadfall

tree trunks? Granted, the current

may eddy—but how does that gouge

a depression so abrupt?

My aunt nearly drowned stumbling

into a hole in the Au Sable

below Parmalee Bridge. She was just

a kid before I was even born.

Someone must have grabbed her

or stuck out a canoe paddle.

Later there was a Polack wedding,

a crowded reception

in Gramps’s backyard. We teased

for sips at the bar made of planks on

saw-horses in the garage. It became family

legend after four babies—they whispered

that my uncle bought her negligees

and she still wore them.

Trinkets

It wouldn’t have mattered

if I didn’t kneel

at the ex-wife’s gravesite.

I could have said my simple,

apologetic words from any height.

But, I took a knee to place this

year’s tribute of trinkets just so.

Others have placed real blooms,

brought more cats—two ceramic ones.

(Her mother told me it was difficult

to find the right dress to send her

off in, free of cat hair.) Someone

added a wind chime of metal

tubes. I stick my cone of silk

blossoms into the May soft ground,

offer a Beanie calico from Hallmark.

She leans against the marble

as if to rub her whiskers

before curling up to wait

for Debby as long as it takes.

Toast

It is an incense of toast

we notice first. Nearby, bread

most likely Hillbilly brand

from a long, family-size bag

is being browned. Coffee drips,

drizzles, these appliances hidden

in a tool locker; extension cords

running out a hole in the back.

Just before first break whistle,

All four slots will jump.

A plump, blond woman works her way

up the assembly-line inspecting rear

seat-belt bolts. She writes awkwardly

upon a clipboard, wrist immobile

in carpal-tunnel brace. Her own

scent is burnt sandalwood

for light duties. She has jelly,

honey packets in a fanny pouch,

free from the cafeteria to spread

if we invite her.

ABOUT:

Chris Dungey is a retired auto worker in Michigan. He rides mountain bike, hikes, lifts, spends too much time in Starbucks. He follows Detroit City FC and Flint City Bucks FC (in person) with religious fervor. More than 165 of his poems have found publication in lit-mags and online. Most recently in 12 Mile Review, Brown Bag Online; and forthcoming in Cypress Review.

EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: Warm Syrup — Trinkets Are Forever