Cindy Buchanan

The Weight of Water

When I was old enough
to carry a jerry can
half full of water

I was sent to the creek
a quarter mile away
to kneel among the pebbles

and feel glacial water
rush past my hands
into the can.

Water sang to metal —
high notes at first
then deeper ones

until I dragged the can upright
and scrapes of gravel
changed the tune.

This is how I remember
it now.  Then, I didn’t hear
the song of water rushing.

Then, it was not music.
Then it was the slow trek
back to our A-frame in the woods

the one where the dog
we kept chained broke loose
and killed my rabbit

the one where hands
were felt in places they
shouldn’t have been felt

the place I revise now
to remember only that
the water was cold

and when I knelt
my body knew
song, knew itself.

Cindy Buchanan was raised in Alaska, has a B.A. in English from Gonzaga University, and was a preschool teacher until she retired. She has studied poetry at Hugo House in Seattle, Washington where she currently lives, and is a member of two monthly poetry groups. She is an avid runner and hiker and enjoys every opportunity to be outdoors. Her work has been published in The Inflectionist Review, Chestnut Review, Evening Street Review, The MacGuffin, Hole in the Head Review, and other journals. Her first chapbook, Learning to Breathe (Finishing Line Press), was published in 2023. Find her at cindybuchanan.com