For Brennan Mahoney, who can cheer like no other father

I swung off as soon as I pierced

the Cibola National Forest,

parked on a gravel path sprinkled

with leaves.  Changed out of my tie

and slacks, pulled on an old pair of sneakers

you had given me, New Balance, white

and a half size too large.

Puffing up the hill, I only needed

to get far enough to scour off

the nervous anxiety that caked my insides.

You had reminded me of the secret

for what to do when it builds up.

My momentum waned, though, before

the release, and I turned back.  But falling down

the hill like water, I allowed my legs to take

up the land as quickly as they pleased—

I wound east and north, and seeing the car,

I pushed them now—pushed until I was a giant,

and as my mind surged I heard your

voice nine years ago:  Autumn became

spring and it was track season;

sharply rising above the crowd, your voice

nine years ago came to meet me with a jolt

of sacred love, came as far as this strange forest.

My tension dissolved in the water I became.

And the memory is one in a bucketful

that could never be repaid,

but I’d like to place the whole bucket,

if I could, out in the sunlight, unassuming,

to catch the blue of the sky and a passing cloud

in its reflection, which would remind me

of every spark of delight I’ve caught in your eye. 

© Michael Mahoney, 2011

What we see in water; photo by Tony Russell