FERRYMAN

He drove the Studebaker down
the two-rut road to rent a painter


he pushed off into the minnows
and shadows they cast on the sand


then the uneasy adjustment
to buoyancy, lock in the oarpins


and we traveled across the lake
in patient pulls--we could feel


the muscle with each stroke, my brother
in the stern marking our progress


to the marsh, I was on point looking
back on his sunburnt face, the knot


of dark hair above his walnut eyes,
a stranger to us when we reached


the channel and slowed over slick weeds
and muck that pucker and popper


obscenely among the bullfrogs.
We pushed and sloughed through


corndog grass and water lilies
the tea-colored water, we grabbed


clumps of reeds and pulled our clumsy
boat deeper, swarmed by dragonflies


and mosquitoes and sweatblind
we stared at the lone red-winged


blackbird guarding a drowned tree
as the first cool air slipped over our skin


and we emptied into the hidden
lake, slicing easy as a dolphin


into the green water, he threw
the inner tube over and we dove into


the warm aquarium sunlight and clung
to the rubber skin while he pulled


that same strong patient pull as we
circled the lake, weeds rubbing our


skinny legs like limp snakes, through
the islands of slippery lily pads,


our toes scrapping the spongy muck
and in the middle feeling the faint


cold pulling our pollywog bodies


behind the unspoken man we
called father, the Admiral, the


great ferryman lugging us
in this private watery world.