Among the perfection of the Biblical seven and Dante’s nine, you lie there in the sheets, the lithest sepia late-eighteenth century eight in the Archive of the Indies, the hand curved on laid cotton in some fertile praise of the Mississippi from one honorable servant of the governor. You govern color, the fuschia bougainvillea, the pink, the orange of dying fire all hung over my Sevilla morning walk like new dresses teasing the ravishing girls to give up their studies and run.
Your figure is classic as the study of a pedestal, as the anchor rung into song by its own chain, brown skeins of seaweed waiting in the wind like the hair of the saddest waitress in Andalucía, drowsy among the shadows of the orange trees in the shadow of the abandoned castle in the shadow of the cathedral and her tower, tipping her cigarette into siesta’s oblivion. Her infinite motto: No me ha dejado.
Your hair is the color of the buff rust swallows’ bellies banking above after four days of rain filling the air and lit from below by the sun setting on a gentle water, that color, chattering and scissoring the light into confettied money, banking.
If you are the book I imagine photographers read to understand the shadow and whet the line, I am less than a chunk of broken concrete, and you with all our married years of river waves lapping might still like a pretty green pebble in me. You free also the wind inside the water, the aching pulse that moves the crest, how a song lifts forward words, waking, making an imaginary wave pulse like a true fiction’s friction and the verse of that invisible river between the ocean and the sea.
A stream can form when a river overflows and splits in two around a freestone island. Taos, this year, greened in a good monsoon.
This stream’s native browns, some stocked rainbows this little paradise, will vanish some sly and quiet night, and the roadside wildflower swoon
will lay aside her purple-blues, dumber than still water. If tomorrow seems a dry land, know that the autumn river runs, trout-strewn
enough. Our prayer: snowmelt next summer come soon.
Red River (Hatchery)
I always think they’ll stock the river with a few of the million trout they raise right here. But mostly, nothing doing. I’d still rank it fifth among my favorite streams near Taos this year.
They’ve torn away the antiquated dam. The trout can roam upstream without a flood. We’ll watch for years to come the traffic jam of stone and blasted concrete, sand and mud
thin, clarify, the river run its course within this valley made of stained, vast shoulders where a golden eagle big as a little horse makes refuge high in the brutal basalt boulders.
A half mile upstream, tangles of wild rose cut me. This is where almost no one goes.
Between Two Rivers, a collaboration of photographs and poems about the rivers and landscape between the Brazos and the Rio Grande by Jerod Foster and John Poch–including these photographs and poems–will be published by Texas Tech University Press in early 2019.
John Poch’s most recent book is Fix Quiet(New Criterion Poetry Prize, 2014). He teaches at Texas Tech University in Lubbock. He has published poems recently in Yale Review, Image, The Common, and Birmingham Poetry Review.
Jerod Foster is a natural history and travel photographer whose work is used by various outlets and organizations such as Texas Highways, Texas Parks and Wildlife Magazine, The New York Times, the Nature Conservancy, and the Bullock State History Museum of Texas. He is the author of seven books on photography education and is an associate professor of practice in the College of Media and Communication at Texas Tech University.
All photos by Jerod Foster except photo of John Poch, by Todd Murphy, and photo of Jerod Foster, by Hayden Denny.