The Gorge: A Poem by Gregory Askew

The Gorge

I know the place where they found you
Not the exact spot, of course
But the general area,
Set between foothills of the mountains to the east:
The chill wood gorge
Where in spring
Rock walls of slate weep tendrils of moss
Through the residues of the winter’s spoils,
The peat-brown mud that renders treacherous
the inclines and moldering surfaces along the trail
Where the brooklet song of the wren
Tumbles over gnarled roots and stone
Past salamanders curled beneath logs sodden with rot

Edging an inverted pine precipitously
and on to the river below
Bird vying for an ear
over the susurrus of eddies and chutes
Did you hear him?

Where in summers past reckless bathers,
Harried to the hills by the city’s heat,
courted a fate same as yours
In the deep narrows where the waters pitch and bend

Where now, I imagine, those waters have since calmed,
The rains having been mild the past weeks,
And the fallen leaves of oak and fir softening the earth
Absorbed the sounds of red squirrel sprinting tree to tree
And the violence of the man who took your life.