Words: Cameron Scott 2017-06-26 18:10:56
Down near the hot springs where old men splash
like overgrown babies and women stretch silently
in the shade, in the pool fed by the creek,
the one you kept jumping into last night
when you would get too hot, the pool that would steal
your breath, the pool you would jump back out of
for the steam of a thousand needles, leaving today,
you notice a brook trout. And then another brook trout,
and then, lined up over the copper-toned bottom
like sticks, another and another. One under the shade
of the bridge, suspended in sunlight, white-tipped
fins, marbled back, looking at you, not caring.
And looking at brook trout with you, tight curly hair
spilling out over her shoulders, nuzzled into her sweater-dress
onesie, is Madelyn. Madelyn who brings sun-dried pesto
and apple butter and ginger kimchi and smoked Chinook
and sprouted cinnamon raisin bread wherever she goes.
Madelyn of the lemon basil goat cheese.
Madelyn of the pistachios and dried cherries.
Madelyn of the IPA. Madelyn of the Malbec.
Madelyn of the down comforter. Madelyn you could drown in.
Madelyn who wants you to teach her how to fish.
Resting against the railing looking at the brook trout,
Madelyn touches you as if she were sunshine,
she touches you as if you were a friend who had sent
an elephant on her birthday, and her fingers
were the only way to acknowledge something
from someplace so distant. Her fingers like the trunks
of a forest of aspen and sky in between the slats.
Her fingers remind you that, among dusty gravel roads
and tomorrow’s guided trip, you promised. And so
you lean into Madelyn and lean over the bridge
and watch the brook trout that watch you, not caring,
and Madelyn who watches you, smiling, and her fingers
like fish, flip-flop on your skin, and your skin like an
electrician, rewires your brain, and this, this is what
fishing is like, to adhere to a single word: Madelyn.
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