There’s something like a river in the road
a father takes with his son, a current
that only flows forward, yet circles
back to bones—a fathomless history
that passes in an instant. & there is
something like a river in the way a father
points out childhood monuments,
the landscape of old bones, farmhouses
folding in on themselves, fence posts kneeling
down as if to lay among the dandelions.
Then, a rapture—a clamorous moment
when the son sees something like four horses
or a cow at pasture, a mythology he has read about
but not directly witnessed. So, as if possessed
by the spirit of story, my son tells me
there is a bearded vulture in India that lives
almost exclusively on bones, that is known
to roll on the earth & paint its feathers with it.
I know what he is saying: that our history becomes
a part of us, like a scar that is tattooed
on our spine. The road slopes downward
& the earth lifts up to swallow it.
Suddenly, our little rented minivan becomes a bird
in flight. There’s a moment where we could claim the sky,
or ride on the shoulders of the wind.
But the thing about being a bird
is that eventually you have to come down.
& the thing about a river is that it’s never the same
river twice. So, the minivan pulls into a driveway
I have never seen, & we hug someone
who looks strange, moon-faced, like a man does
when he’s diagnosed with cancer.
But the thing about a father is that he’s always
there, even though he moves sluggishly
or uses the arm of a walker to lean down,
to pull a golden dandelion from the ground,
& to slip it in my son’s chest pocket.
On the way to the airport, we pause
at the longest river in the country, which exists
between two separate states. In its depths, I imagine,
are bones of amphibians, ribs of old wooden boats.
As we start to wade in, I am suddenly gripped
by an overwhelming fear & sadness.
There is something like a road in a river
where a son can take the lead. Fast
as the current goes, he laughs. So, I laugh.
& our toes slowly sink into the sand.
Seth Peterson is an emerging writer, researcher, and physical therapist in Tucson, Arizona. His poems are published or forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Pirene’s Fountain, and elsewhere. He serves as an Associate Editor for JOSPT Cases and teaches nationally with The Movement Brainery.