Return to the Chattooga River
I’ve measured the years in shades of grey.
Tonight’s sky is full of lamps. Up the river
bank, in scaffolds of apathy, rafters drift
into dreams of raging rapids. I sense
the smell of late spring prowling through
the night, skittering across random
peaks of river chop. The river’s muscle
flexes, builds as the stars sweep the sky.
Hope bids me to the water’s edge—for
a voice far downstream, in the ocean
perhaps—who said the river will test us,
strengthen us. A voice who knows I left
for land. In an eddy, the milky way swirls,
wet pincers lurch near my feet as I listen.
Richard L. Matta grew up in New York’s Hudson Valley, attended Notre Dame, practiced forensic science, and now lives in San Diego with his golden-doodle dog. Some of his work is found in Ancient Paths, Dewdrop, New Verse News, San Pedro River Review, and Healing Muse.
