Surrender by Jack Powers

The river was higher than when we'd forded in the fall, but it was late
and this wide bend in the Housatonic was still the shallowest spot.

So we re-cinched our tents and bags, strapped on our packs
and, under a cloud-shrouded moon, began crossing–Guy first, then Tom
and Sarah, me at the rear for clean-up.

                                                                At sixteen, camping had become
the only time I wasn't fighting to make my life my own. Guy crossed
like a summer stroller, but the lovebirds wobbled. Keep your head down,

I shouted above the river's roar. Test each step. They screamed at the current.
Be the river, I yelled. They laughed, slowed, clasped hands, alternated steps.
I walked in a low stance, spotting with arms held wide.

                                                                                            Sarah then Tom
climbed up the opposite bank with a Whoop! and a Yes! I relaxed and looked up
as the moon broke free of the clouds and laid a rippling sword of reflection

right down the river into my gut. With an Oof, I fell back, floating, surrendering
to the current, a contented speck of the quick river, white moon, black night.



Jack Powers is the author of Everybody's Vaguely Familiar and Still Love. His poems have appeared in The Southern Review, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere. Jack won the 2015 and 2012 Connecticut River Review Poetry Contests and was a finalist for the 2013 and 2014 Rattle Poetry Prizes. Visit his website at http://www.jackpowers13.com/poetry/.