Travis Stephens
By The Chippewa River
the end of the bottle
the end of the evening
the start to a serious decline.
We are cousins, sort of,
used to standing around,
quiet, beer bottled in hand,
staring into a fire burn, watch
a river sweep by taking stick,
leaves, the rest of the day.
Damn that water looks cold.
Kids dig worms out of
the grass & nobody wants
to make dinner.
This a remembrance
because the body got planted
in faraway Texas & yet
everybody wants to honor
the one who got away.
The men wear T-shirts &
gimme caps, the women in
summer dresses. I am
overdressed in khakis,
upwind from cigarettes.
Remember when he….
damn, that was crazy.
But not as crazy as side-swiping
a concrete pillar at 70
miles an hour, sparks & smoke &
a Chevy pickup shorn of two wheels.
His daughter said they found
his pistol inside the truck but he
was thrown, saying “thrown” the
Texas way with extra syllables.
This is the sour mash
this is the decanted bile.
Vees of geese circle back
as if north were up for debate.
He played Tevye in “Fiddler”,
ironic, given his early flight
into the Air Force. A wife,
another. Nieces who never
met him sniffle in empathy.
His brothers recall a lively tongue,
rabbit punches, his eyes blue
like the river, blue in the sun
yet brown, tea brown &
colder underneath.
A few miles upstream the
Flambeau departs its wooded
cave to join the Chippewa
on its way to town. Last century
the spring log run knotted at
Holcombe, took the bridge,
took seven lives. A great- great-
grandson wrapped his truck
around a Texas bridge pillar.
This river has seen it all,
still sings in the rapids,
still heading south every day.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. A graduate of University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, recent credits include: GYROSCOPE REVIEW, 2RIVER, GRAVITAS, RAW ART REVIEW, CROSSWINDS POETRY JOURNAL, AMERICAN JOURNAL OF POETRY, SHEILA-NA-GIG, SKY ISLAND JOURNAL, and THE DEAD MULE SCHOOL OF SOUTHERN LITERATURE.