I always thought you were so handsome,
floating alone in the open river: your hands
behind your head in the mossy shade of the
bear’s coat, the forest standing at attention
waiting for you to speak, hushed to hear
your soft voice, but you were always silent.
I, too, waited for a gesture, willing to walk
across the water with timid feet and clamor
into your boat, and row with the rusty oars
—these calloused hands wouldn’t mind—
and steer to the mouth where the salmon
swarm in skews beneath the glossy ink, but
your eyes are closed and I cannot utter
loudly enough to wake you, so I slip away
back into the woods from which I came,
where the hum of the bees about the nests
cover the sounds of my own heaving sighs.