Above the rock slide near Thoreau spring

are stone offerings on a cairn. Clouds brawl

in filaments of mist billowing from

scrubbing boards and a mother

fiercely rubbing the long night’s stain.

From middle age I invoke damp winter

days hanging frozen in sheets and trousers

above a stove and a mother’s wrinkled sighs

patting migrant bruises, her long corridor

of convalescence compressing anxiety

to fingertips that trace ladders of

stitches from chin to throat to breast.

Speaking an antique language

that rose and fell in a reverie of sighs,

she brought forth from the stiff line

of northern sun curses for the ironing board,

her discontent falling onto my phantom lap.

In updrafts of memory I swallowed

her restlessness, watching evening steam

rise from threads of river to sift the pine

and fir on sweatered hillsides.

Behind the Knife Edge the sun began

its descent as I retraced my way

down the rock strewn path.

Hugh Curran was born in Donegal, Ireland, and is a lecturer in Peace Studies at the University of Maine. He was formerly the co-director of the Emmaus Homeless Shelter in Ellsworth.