SUSKWA

by jamella hagen

The water, melted ice just down
from the mountains, thigh-deep
and so fast we used two gnarled sticks
to help us cross, our feet bruising
as they slipped on shifting rocks. Naked
as young animals we made it
through the burning cold to the other side,
to the beaver ponds where we balanced
on wet logs and swam until our lips
were the colour of saskatoons.  
On the way back, our muscles
awkward from the cold, words
slurred by freezing cheeks, we laughed
because we couldn’t speak, because we
didn’t need to, bushwacked back
to our clothes, which we could hardly
put on, then shivered our way
up the trail to stand wringing our hair
by the hot wood stove, telling stories
to the grownups, waiting
for the beans to warm so we could eat
even though we’d been eating all day,
soapberries, old man’s beard, lichens:
things we claimed to love
because we had found them ourselves.