The Floods of Felsenthal -- a poem by Grace Wagner

Grace Wagner

The Floods of Floods of Felsenthal

Every November, so says my father, the floods follow the ducks to
Felsenthal:
blue-wing teals, mallards, black ducks and gadwalls,
They gather in covens and bring the rain
which soaks the shallow roots of the loblollys
who stand evergreen over the pine-needle stratum; the rain
which gluts the earth till it brims and breaks, flooding
until it fills the basin of itself; the rain
which gives new roads to the fish, crawpie and walleye, largemouth bass
basking beneath the pine-filtered light of dawn.

As the water follows the birds, so my father follows the water.
He takes me out on its face, breaking
the water's waiting tension with the prow of our canoe.
Here two months ago my grandfather stayed, camped close.
But the flood takes it all, swallowing campsites and parking lots, slow
Southern apocalypse meandering in oxbows and bottom lands,
gathering itself in sloughs and buttonbush swamps.

Now the loblolly pines grow from water.
A small hill rises artificially high, bearing the weight of man-
made brick and mortar, restrooms for the campgrounds
when the ground was still visible.
My father sits in front of me, back to the trees,
rowing us through their shining corridors.
We say nothing and the nothing echoes
back to us across the water.

I look over the edge but cannot see
the ground only three feet below me.
The water shows me the sky and pine-lace.
I look up and see the same vision, sky and trees,
a perfect mirror of the water.
The light ripples as I move
beneath it, concentric circles radiating
from the centermost point of my eyes;
mandala in pine and sky.

The ducks watch us, augurs with webbed feet
sculling beneath the polished surface,
their buoyant bodies swiveling
to watch us pass.
They know we are not here for them.
They know the rain will soak and sink 
into the land, damp leaves left like carpet
after a hurricane.
They know my father will die
some day and that I will follow him.

A tackle box sits at my feet, but my father does not
open it. Does not pull out the assemblage of jigs,
of spinners and spoons and flies.
The buzzbaits sit unsummoned, sullen
in their rubber skirts.
Today my father does not pull out the rod
or the reel.

He rows
in silence through the trees,
knowing as I know
that nothing
needs to be said.

This is one of nine poems by Grace Wagner published in the Spring 2017 issue of Skidmore College's Literary Journal, Salmagundi Magazine

Seniors Speed Dating -- Flash Fiction

image from ctpost.com

“I’m 72 and fit,” he said puffing his chest out like a strutting tom turkey. He was carrying what looked to be a good cowboy hat.

“Yes, you are.” She smiled and tried to recall why she’d agreed to do this – speed dating for seniors. She thought it was a running joke for the thirty-somethings. What was she thinking?

The man sat down and laid his hat on the table.

“Been married four times. The middle two were young and hot, just after my money.”

Her smile disappeared.

“Trudy, the last one was a beautiful woman. I knew her back in college. She took care of me. Elegant, you know?” The more he talked of Trudy, the softer his voice became. “But she died.”

His gentility disappeared.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She tried to redirect his attention for this ridiculous meet and greet. “What do you do?”

“As little as possible. I’m an old football player. Have some exercise equipment, but don’t seem to find the time to use it as much as I used to. You know what they say ‘Once you retire, you don’t see how you ever had time to work.’”

She thought about the blind guy – what was that? Two men ago? Maybe three. Eight minutes with each man. Too long for this football player, not long enough for Nathan, the blind guy.

Nathan still rode the Light Rail into Denver three days a week. He’s an accountant and still services half a dozen long-time clients. His daughter and two other young people (he considers 50’s to be young) took over the firm four years ago. But he still enjoys the work.

“What did you do before you retired?”

“Insurance. Almost got a degree in Petroleum Engineering, but my eligibility ran out. Then I got drafted.”

“Vietnam?” she asked.

“Nah. Dallas.”

“Oh, I see.” Five more minutes. “What do you like to do for fun? Travel?” she prompted him. Might as well encourage him to express his best side. “Eat out? Go to movies?”

“Sure. Travel. I got a Lexus RC F.”

She knew Lexus, but what was an RC F?

“Exhilaration from the asphalt up,” he quoted from what must have been a television ad.

It made her think of that Maserati commercial “I have a Maserati Ghibli, not because there’s room for my golf clubs in the trunk.” That’s when she changed channels, no matter what she’d been watching.

Nathan had said he walked or took public transport wherever he wanted to go. Or rode with friends.

“Where do you like to go when you travel?” she asked the former Cowboy.

“As a Lexus owner, I get discounts in the Napa Valley.”

“That’s nice. I like Napa.”

She and her Andrew used to meet his brother and sister-in-law there in the winter. Not as many tourists and nicer weather. The men liked steelhead fishing in the Napa River. She and Janine read and shopped. They all enjoyed the food and wine there.

Her dear Andrew drove a Subaru Forester. His knees were bad and it was hard to get in and out of those cars that sit close to the ground. He never would agree to surgery, kept saying he’d do it when they got bad enough, but he died before that.

Returning her attention to the speed dating that wasn’t nearly speedy enough, she asked “Where do you like to stay in Napa?”

“Oh, I haven’t been there.” He ran his fingers through a thick shock of salt and pepper hair, a bit long to still be considered stylish. “Don’t really know much about wine. I lean more to Bourbon and branch, myself. From what I hear there’s not much to do there. Been to San Fran, though. Played the 49ers there.”

“I see,” she said.

The blind man tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she said to the oft-married, Lexus owning, former Dallas Cowboy. Maybe it was important. Or important enough.