for Ms. Kelly
My wife does not believe me, in fact
she has started to mock me, to register
in her discourse and demeanor a kind of
flippant disregard for my sincerity. I suppose
if I were Darwin just back from the Galapagos,
or Audubon with dripping carcasses of spoon
bills and egrets, she’d offer me some credence.
But as it is, here in the sad flatlands, where the last
evidence of wilderness was a misguided ground
squirrel that inadvertently nested high in our sugar maple,
she cannot concede to my numerous sightings
of otters. I’ve told her, that I’ve spotted them
by the drainage ditch, crossing the culvert, that
they’re as big as German Shepherds, sleek as seals,
hunch-backed and quick. She wants to know
if they talk, if they speak some Midwestern tongue,
if I’ve given them golf lessons, taken them to La Fiesta
the Mexican restaurant I’m so clearly fond of, and
when I’m late to get home, if a whole caravan of river
otters set the rail crossing to flash and barricade the road.
I’m thinking, even Isabella only denied Columbus for a year.
But at this point, there’s no convincing her– and even though
I know the world is round, there’s no harm in letting it be
flat. It’s not unlike my love for her, she can’t see it the way
I do, how it plays in the waters and out, in every natural and
unnatural vision I embrace.