I was eleven the first time
I felt the big wind and hot rain.
The creek was a river.
It rushed like a madman.
On the rickety wooden bridge,
toes curled over the edge,
waving my arms,
I welcomed exultation’s flow.
It was my first
full-bore, full-blown, hyper-manic;
a welcome discomfort,
scary, beyond control.
I loved it.
Let the wind blow through me.
Look at that water chugging along,
spinroiling, roaring, chortling,
laughing past rocks,
throwing big limbs up in the air.”
I heard crashing rocks,
rumbling that was the whole world
singing itself bigger than life,
groaning: “I am not Mother Earth! I am The Father,
bringing life to all that will live,
flowing My will into everything,
leaving no stone unturned,
lifting each root up unto these hills,
bearing the presents in all things to come.”
Old bitch Baxter teacher witch came
screeching like the banshee she was.
Said she was going to tell my Daddy on me;
meaning to put fear of The Father in me.
I sent threat down the river.
She put disgust,
distrust of humanity
in me forever.
high on the bridge.