Susan Alkaitis

Geodes

 Above coal beds and glacial lakes,

            we wade in the creek today, descending

through viscus masses of bullfrog eggs

            sticking to our calves. Aaron says

he’s going to find me a poor man’s diamond

            as he clears refugee mussels, digging

into the bank’s loam. It’s futile like it always is

            with him, but he says the fertile soil

here means promise of a bounty.

            As he bends to examine and discard rocks,

the sweat on his neck reflects just right

            against the sunlight so it flashes

for a second and blinds me. Then the brightness

            is gone. Of course,

it’s like time. He finds spheres

            he declares to be hollow, where pockets

of air, water, minerals could have fused.

            He tells me that geodes are native here.

I ask him what he thinks it means to be native

            to something, as we watch two frogs,

yellow-throated and male, wrestling aggressively

            to defend the silt. Occurring naturally—

meant to be here, he says. See? That’s just it.

            I separate layers of shale between my fingers.

We are part air, part water, part mud

            and the shale breaks easily in my hands.

Dependence on an unstable foundation,

            I know, but today is just today. I want

everything to be simple before I go. I just want

            to sit on the edge of the creek for now.