Narcissus Unless Echo by Jake Fournier

I am drawn to that clear stream
stretching thataway.
I submerge my face in it
with open eyes—
What are these translucent fish
that flagellate against the current?
I am afraid, but not of time.
I am alone temporarily—
pistols, skiffs, the propane heater
in the hunting shack
where I spine-shot a doe
and her front legs flailed,
dragging her second-half
like a roller-suitcase
through the cattails.
I blotted her hound-like ear
a second time, and, when I
lowered the white-bead,
it still wasn’t there. Where
Mennonites are chasing
golf balls beyond the trees,
this is the song they sing:

          We see the sisters’ caps above the weeds,
                   eleven seasons’ strange variety.
          The smith forgives the lorgnette’s sting
                   and silence plates the jewelry.

What am I thinking?
      A man slit from the larynx,
      half his ribcage over
      each flank, his arms
      hanging stirrup-like.
Of this time I was on a horse
at the Crawford Fair and the horse
got on its knees.
      I felt nothing when I read
      the sign. I wanted to swim
      by the dam there and I did
      and nothing came of it.