My big brother is not like a river, ever-changing, moody,
bringing you along in his current –
he is a river,
the Menominee, and despite his full-time job
keeping Wisconsin and Michigan in their places,
he has also pulled and tangled my hair,
has stolen my towels, sunglasses, one
cell phone, several shirts, flip-flops,
and rarely gives any of them
back without a fight;
he has lifted me up
while i float on my back
moving ever-eastward, southward,
arms crossed behind my head as I
watch white clouds shapeshift
against a cobalt sky.
My brother the river
despite meeting me when I was only four
has tried to kill me, more than once,
dumping me out of a raft in his angry rapids,
pulling me under,
one time pinning me underwater
between a runaway dock and shifting mud,
leaving my forehead scarred and a leech on my ankle
for good measure.
Try to explain that to the nurse.
Seven stitches, no lie.
He is funny, my brother.
He has borne me down
his current on more rafts
than i can count, held me
every summer since 1974 while I
explored the shadowed underworld
with a mask to my face, collecting
clam shells
or had somersault contests with the neighbor kids
who made up my universe until my lungs nearly burst,
Matt, Beth, Colleen, and me all coming up for air
in great gulping gasps.
I held my Snoopy fishing pole
over the side of the boat
I shared with my dad,
listened from below the surface
as my mother called me in for dinner as I pleaded for
just five more minutes;
My brother has sometimes taken a drink of my beverage
or spit into it to claim it for himself –
he has gouged my shins with rocks
has sliced my family’s feet with empty clam shells,
has teased me with snapping turtles –
bald eagles, herons,
sturgeons lazily nosing their way along the shore, unafraid;
painted turtles, otters, kingfishers,
raccoons,
and the occasional fox –
I’ve seen deer swim across, and pine snakes,
thin slow slender white snakes in cold fast spring water,
we’ve caught bass, walleye, minnows, more fish
than i can count; have had crayfish
cling to our shorts
like bad habits –
He is patient, my brother
I am older now,
I’ve given my brother the river some of
the ashes of my son,
and some ashes of the man who sold us our cabin and land
(though, overcome, before signing he
pushed the deed away, stood and looked out the window, wiped his silent tears –
My brother the river was this man’s brother, too.)
I haven’t always been
a great sibling, I’ve spilled these things on him,
not on purpose,
but still:
sunscreen, beer, soda, mosquito spray, Doritos, magazines, chairs, part of a dock –
he’s borne it all,
washed all of it away;
And now
my brother the river
doesn’t know he is threatened –
a new neighbor with flush pockets and a keen eye
for silver and gold hidden in the fast folds
of the earth
wants to open a wound, gouge the soil,
bathe those precious metals
in caustic chemicals along my brother’s fragile banks
though he solemnly avows no harm –
and I don’t know how to warn him, my brother, to pack up his currents and move far away, so he doesn’t burn
orange like Colorado’s Animas, so his fish don’t turn over and float into Lake Michigan
like apologies too late;
I don’t have his number,
my brother the river
so instead
I write this to tell him how much I love him
and that i will stand on this playground
and try to fight this bully who comes
with soothing statistics and smooth
promises of jobs and safety,
who will someday walk away
with only profit –
I will try to fight
though i have no weapons
but words.
Halfway North 