RICHLAND DOCK, 2006

The Columbia rolls on
through the desert,
unimpressed and unattached---
a woman who doesn't need boys
to dance, a king's parade
of golden carriages,
an endless line of warriors ants.
The river speaks French
in a land of inferior grammar.
The river is blue in a field of brown,
green in a field of grey,
black in a field of bronze.
The river shuns the desert.
It holds its tongue.
It saves itself for the ocean.
The river is fast, undammed,
Rapunzel's hair let down
and won't allow this
shrub-steppe plain to climb it.
The river won't lend itself
to grow a tree. Look---
sagebrush flush with its banks.
No meeting, no kiss, no marriage.
Look at the tumbleweeds.
The river bathes in its glory,
the desert eats dust. The river
belongs to somewhere else.
The mighty river passes, not touching.
But not untouched.

Kathleen Flenniken
Southern Poetry Review 45:1