October 27, 2022Tying the Knot
I struggle, spread on the bow, sweat
dripping to wet fingerless gloves,
to tie a bowline in the stiff
slimed hulking rope of the mooring.
Patiently you have told me “out
of the hole, round the tree, into
the hole” but line resists loop, hole’s
edge laps backwards or rabbit
runs around the tree widdershins
and under my hands fall away
to nothing. Neither has my double
hitch held, the second twist
taking a wrong turn, sliding
free, unsnagged, deep
into churning water. You’ve tried
to show me how to plait the figure
eight, infinite knot holding
firm under stress but in calm,
slipping free. I’ve shrunk from the bright
beam of love’s dazzling ring,
that lasso’s unwavering light,
I’ve shied from enclosure, cheered when
the cowpoke’s lariat falls
flat. Yet how tenderly
you would wrap a tasseled cord
round the skittish bones of my wrist
then your own as we’d lace
vows; you’d lead me, blindfolded
mare from a blazing barn,
lash me like that other sailor
to a mast of trust. Show me,
my Houdini, once again
how to tie that automatic
knot, how bitter ends
come naturally to connection,
how blunt, blind fingers find
the way to links that simply last
or loosen on command, even
in the dark of inattention,
even under water, even
in a sunken trunk bound with
leather straps, even as,
expert, lithe, adept, we brim
with, hold each other’s breath.
from #22 - Winter 2004