On a moonless night, when the current
is the color of grimy oil-based printer's ink
(dark, thick, smudging into clear air)
you have to picture the map in your head:
count the number of crossings,
squint your toes ahead on the trail
until they are bitten by the cold
minnow-tendrils of water, and let go
of transparency. Your feet will flow
along the stones at the bottom,
fighting right-angle forces
that haved ripped your shoes off as a child
and sent them into murky perch-filled turbulence.
Never forget your grandmother
diving after them (she only found the left one
and kept it for you under her bed; decades later
it sinks into calm depths).
You know this river is not
the barbed-wire mudsuck of childhood;
you know it will not let you swim
only to lure you into the hole,
but if your foot slides onto a slimy rock
for a moment you may chant
a prayer to catfish, heard by trout;
you may picture the cold mouths
grabbing you. Here is a ledge
you can follow out, and even though
the trail is here, the river follows
and clings scummy to your legs.
This is how to make the first crossing.