Smell of the new, the pure, lures us to the swollen river.
I fly inside our camp cottage as soon as I see my father and uncle
hoist the green canoe.
In the back bedroom, I wiggle my skinny seven-year-old body
into a red-print cotton bathing suit-with skirt
not waiting for Mother chasing after,
trying to tie the straps of its gathered top.
The two manly brothers turn their heads in unison,
wordlessly checking to see if I am in place
properly pace our procession
under the ribbed mahogany Umbria.
We parade slowly by the Eschenbach’s cottage,
maneuvering the flood-mud still seeping onto the nearby
fifteen concrete steps to the river path.
I sing each step’s number as we slowly descend to the lower field.
My two noblemen grin at the complaints of Mrs. Eschenbach,
“…mopping up the stink of these untamed waters.”
Can she not smell that it is aroma?
Does she not inhale it as a message from foreign lands?
from glacial lakes and twirling tributaries,
sloughed off thawed islands on the Mississippi?
Has she forgotten this smell broadcasts seed and blossom?
just as important as the smell of coal that barges bear, I say.
But I will not say, because mother warns sass is what I must work on.
Plus, Mrs. Eschenbach gives me homemade anise cookies
fragrantly exotic on the tongue.
The bottom step leads to the lower field
where corn stalks from the group garden are taller than me.
The canoe canopy blocks all sunlight for an eerie moment
while a broad-winged hawk whistles a warning.
Locust armies’ drumming fills the willows.
For courage, I fix my stare on the Michelangelo calves of my uncle,
made strong by sports on camp’s playing field,
and glance back at the sureness of my father’s bare feet.
At last, we vanquish all foes hiding in the corn forest.
I dance. I twirl.
I am Queen of the Fairies. I am Pharaoh’s daughter.
I am Pharaoh.
From a small sand hill, I survey my domain.
I slip out from my guards, run over rocks tumbled by
the might of years and rush of waters.
I plunge into the shocking cold before shove-off.
Father lifts me, dripping wet, to the middle seat
while he is already thigh-deep in heady current.
I hold the sides of the canoe and hold my breath,
waiting for the wondrous drop of oar.
Maureen M. Welch was born into a family of Irish storytellers in a southern Ohio city bordering Appalachia. She learned to revere the written word: becoming a closet poet, then a high school English teacher. Settling in northern Florida, she worked as a writer, and as an activist in women’s rights and environmental campaigns. In 2020, Maureen won the Faulkner-Wisdom Writing Competition for Single Poem, and appeared on the Honors Page for poetry in the Atlanta Review, December, 2023. She is currently working on a novel, a collection of short stories, and a collection of poetry.