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La Push
Wend away from Kalaloch, leave miles
of beached cedar logs behind, pass
Ruby Beach, sand there, a gritty cradle
for imagined jewels glittering
in morning sun. Ignore haystack rocks
stretching for sky from Pacific waves
still trying to grind them into powder
after five million years. You have life left,
enough to let such memories fade.
Pass by Hoh River, soggy rainforest
gone moss-insane — two hundred inches
of drizzle tricking huckleberry bushes
into taking root in crook of cedar,
new life fifty feet toward gray sky.
Refuse to be fooled — head north
for Forks. Turn west, make for La Push,
mystic beach, where winds blow through
like a mistral on speed, the pines
bowing down broken in rows of prayer.
Quileute still carve traditional canoes,
totem poles stand here and there
as sentinels waiting for whale-filled boats.
Old canoes decay on the sand,
no tent can remain long, each kited
skyward. Your best bet, the lodge,
no line, check in. Find stairs
to Fifties room half-rotten,
walls, slime green. The curtains,
shredded, each rip a black space
between bony remains of your life.
Sit by the dirty window. Stare
at endless gray before what passes
as anemic sun floats belly up into night.
(published by Windfall) |
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 Ruby Beach Tim Pilgrim
Kalaloch Lodge Steve Giordano
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