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Ropes of Water
by amanda johns

the threads



[ rope toys ]

i suppose
the rope industry
is the smartest way to go.
i will tell my son
if i ever have a son
in this deep valley
where the sun rises
late.

rope is what i remember
what i first saw in my hands
teethed on
slept with.

mother says
that little boys over the mountains
get whistles and drums
pistols and bows
marbles and cards
for christmas.
she says this with
my little sister in her lap
holding her doll
with hair made of rope.



[ cow-boys ]

thomas and i
wake up in the early dark
and meet behind the barn.
we creep to open the stalls
saddle his father’s horses
push large straw hats
over our foreheads.
we coil our ropes
mount and bolt into the
lightening
lifting mist.
mr. finnic’s gate creaks
but thomas and i are too afraid
to jump the wooden fence.
i open the gate this time.
he does not wait for me to mount
before he rushes
shouting at the lazy cows.
cows lying down
cows grazing on snow-covered hay
cows swishing their tails
cows making hoof prints in the snow.
he charges at them and makes
them move.
rope flying.
we yell cow calls at their grunts
and groans of protest.
i fling my noose at their necks
till mr. finnic bellows
pwyll! thomas!
what are you cow boys doing?
and sends us home.
then as always
he shakes his head
tries not to smile
says he will see us again
tomorrow morning.



[ the river ]

my mother sends me to the river.
the river
that falls from the mountain.
she could go herself
but she is afraid for my sister
who follows and plays by the water
while my father is working at
the mill.
she says i am a strong boy.
i can carry the bucket
full of river-water
with the rope-handle
all the way home
faster than even she can.

it's true now when i
must break the crust of ice
on the river-bank
to reach the part
too impatient to freeze.

but in the summer
i stay to play
with the river-boys.
the river-boys
who splash me
and dare me to swim.
the river-boys
whose mothers toss them
in the water as babes
who master even the river
and do not
drown.

they know i cannot float
because my hands tremble
the rope-handle.

miller's son! they call
swimming like fishes
glossy skin browning in the sun.
i only watch
with wide eyes
and scoop a piece of their playground
safe in my pail.
thomas tells me
not to fear.
he shows me how the river will carry me
like my bucket will carry the river.

the water stays
so clear i can see the sandy
bottom that i cannot touch
pebbles and fish for which i dare not
reach.

father says
the hermit
who lives on the mountain
the hermit
who lives by the spring
he watches the stream being born
where the drops come up
from the frozen earth.
he takes care of the little droplets
melting from mountain snow
until they surge down together
merge headlong to visit
the river-boys
and turn the mill wheel
and fill my water bucket
with the rope-handle.



[ knitting ]

she yanks at the
yarn made of knots
in a ball.
my mother watches where every string
winds in and out
of the whole
to work correcting magic
on chaos.
i watch each finger
fall to task.
then her wooden needles will
fly--
loop
cross
loop
--to make a sweater
of small soft ropes
to hold in the warm fire of home
when i have gone in the snow
to hunt in the cold.
but now she is fumbling
with the twisted impossibility
of one eternal string
hugging itself.
sometimes i am afraid.
sometimes i wish it would stay
tangled.



[ an outsider ]

at times i forget
there is something
beyond these mountains.

they rescued a traveling salesman
lost in the snow
in the foothills.
mr. hade’s dogs found him first
and chased his pack horse away.
i am afraid of those dogs
and i am not a horse.
the salesman’s packs burst open
they said
strewing whistles and drums
pistols and bows
marbles and cards
all over the pine forest floor
leaving strange marks in the snow.
they gathered his horse and goods
and brought him to our village.

he wears colorful clothes
and a funny striped hat.
he tells the children stories of flat land
water as far as the eye can see
places where snow never falls.
he feeds them golden fruit
until the children grow sticky
lips bleeding
from sucking his horned fruits.

he tells me i live in
pennsylvania.
a man named william
owns our mountain.
i ask him
does he own the white stag?

he pats my head
hands me a pistol
and says
for a few dollars
i can have my white stag
on my family’s dinner-table
courtesy
of william penn.



[ disappointed ]

thomas’ brother went after the stag
two years ago.
when he returned he said
he roped the stag and let him go.
he has no antler for proof
but he is so big we never question
his word.

my hands burn
when he grabs my rope
as i come for thomas.
he says he is still working on the farm
and i think thomas must not be done with his chores
but his brother says he means himself.
if i really caught the stag i
wouldn’t be farming still
he says.
there is no white stag
or i would have caught him
he says.
he tells me thomas and i won’t find
any stag or blessing and everything
our parents tell us is a lie.
he says
go on your little hunt and
pretend for a few days
but don’t be disappointed
if you end up a miller
he says
and leaves me
lashed in the face.



[ doomed ]

the hermit on the mountain.
he caught the white stag once.
they say he wished
to be an important man.
is he like mr. penn
or a traveling salesman who sees
far away skies
unmarred by high hills?
no.
he stays on his mountain
all alone
just the river--
forever a midwife for the river
birthing in the mountain--
after he caught the stag.

i do not think he is very blessed.
i am afraid that all my parents’ hopes
are doomed to be a hermit
on a mountain.



[ coal ]

my father sits at dinner
barely touching his cornbread.
mr. hade found the salesman
wandering in the mountains again
looking for coal
he announces.
the man thinks
he can start a mine
to make himself and us rich.
he says that coal is a black rock
that burns to cook bread and warm
the house.
he is leaving to ask mr. penn
for men and equipment
when the snow melts
my father says
to build the mine.
can the salesman dig up our mountain
and burn it?

i think about this morning
and how my little sister screamed
mine!
when i tried to lasso her doll
off the fence.
i do not think i could be so important
or ever grow big enough
to ever call a mountain
mine.



[ animals ]

the salesman told me
the village people have a strange
fear of animals.
he does not understand why we boys
tie a noose
not load a gun.
he says the white stag is winter
and summer will come
when the stag is dead.
but we know the stag.
he watches our mountain
our river
waiting to bless us
if we are dedicated to the task.

but the wild boar.
he makes me wish i had a
shiny new pistol.
i hear mother knitting with the women.
they say if the salesman builds his mine
he will disturb the wild boar.
it kills infants and children
they say.
it fights grown men and
destroys crops.
they are afraid of the salesman’s mine.

i cannot imagine any animal worse
than hade’s dogs.
i think they would beat the wild boar.
they swim and keep up with
galloping horses for miles.
they chase boys up hade’s apple trees
wait for them to fall
until the sun sets behind the mountains.
when mr. hade hunts
rabbits or birds
those dogs eat more
than they bring back.

the salesman says my fear of animals
is not healthy.
i wonder then
why he is always so keen
on selling his guns
and staying away from
the dogs.



[ the kite ]

the salesman uses brown paper
and whittled-smooth sticks.
my sister ties together her hair ribbons
for a rainbow-tail.
he tethers it with the finest rope i ever saw
and makes it fly.
it climbs the mountain-sides
as i will do
and where i must go
until it becomes a speck in the sky
higher than the hovering hawk
blending with the mountian rock.
i imagine it can go higher
but for the string the salesman grips in his hands.

my neck hurts from looking up
hours with the children.

later my sister comes crying like
a funeral.
a little boy let go.
one slip from his fingers
and it was free.

they followed
the string
across the village
and found it tangled
in a pine.
we never throw anything away
but rope knotted that fine
would take forever.

i hate the trees
my sister sobbed.
no, you don’t
i said.
the salesman will cut them down!
he said so
and she stomped away
nose in the air
tears on the floor.

other stories . . . part 2: the unraveling . . . part 3: the weaving

©2004 by amanda johns