I dive off a boulder into currents
that shimmy my mermaid hair
sweep me over pebbles
I touch with my fingers,
trust my weightless limbs to the river’s whim
I reach the hem of thickets
my hair catches on a branch
near a mayfly nibbling algae, a bee on a fuschia,
my fingers are my mother’s brush
untangling snarls
With her Lucite hairbrush she chased me
squealing through the house,
around the apricot tree,
her voice half-growling,
Get over here, Missy!
Her other voice, cheerful,
I’m a little teapot while we shop
for school clothes, short and stout, which I’m not, we both
adore how my knee socks match the Scotch-plaid skirt,
how shiny pennies wedge into the slits on my loafers
Now a version of my mother
I squint to take in,
lounging on the opposite bank.
Why didn’t you come to my funeral?
Lockdown, Mom, I reply. Pandemic, I…
You Bitch!
unleashes a whoosh of water, flings me free
into rapids rinsing rocks. And there she reclines,
glass of Chablis, emerald eyes serene,
bane turns to blessing, as I flutter-kick upstream.
Teri Ketchie
Former bilingual teacher and mentor in Watsonville, California, Teri writes poetry and volunteers as a docent at a local wetland. A photographer and musician, her poems weave together themes of nature, travel and family. She was a featured reader at 43rd Santa Cruz Celebration of the Muse in April, 2024.