Canoe

One summer the 
night storms felled
the biggest oak in the forest
by the creek.
We cut off its branches
and dragged the 
trunk into the yard.

Those months
of sun
I stood outside
and dug out a 
canoe.
Sweating and splintered,
each day
I dug deeper, polished,
peeled.
With hand tools
I carved a canoe
like the Natives
once had,
felt the wind
pass through me.

I spent days
crouched in the shadow
of the great
fallen beast,
my fingers bleeding
and splitting with
my works.

My father stood
and yelled from the porch
as the sun faded
each night,
"That ain'g gon float, baby girl,
you best give up,
cut your losses"
And he would spit
a stream
of poison tobacco 
into the innocent grass.

My brothers would chase
the dog under the boat
up on its sawhorses
and knock it onto the lawn
with a thundering pound.

Day in 
and day out
it occupied my dreams
my hands,
and my heart knew
from somewhere
it would float.

Painted and sanded in
August's dog days
I climbed inside as
I pushed myself off the river's bank,
and floated away
under the verdant
shadow of
the summer trees.