Extreme Sports

Here the bee-hive, alive with potential
to give us a jolt that’ll sting or swell

us up, make me shriek. A cliff? Let’s jump, a cord snaps
back, raises, keeps us from the dirt for another day. Perhaps

you and I just like to come as close as the river does
to that thin line, racing the northern length of California was

our screaming feat. Rocks on which to smash a raft, back, the last
fact: water here is toxic to its fish. We flipped into rapids so fast

white foam fountains spun us under until we were propelled to a still pool.
The salmon hadn’t floated up yet, bellies burning. It was cool

in May. Later in the summer, hotter, way less water, and they
cook. Our oars were gone, orange kayak likely miles away

already. So we climbed onto a hot Klamath rock, alive. I said look,
an eagle. It swooped close as a puppet to us both. You took

my hand, drowned limp from paddling. Now you would be
practical, and save us both. But you asked, “Want to marry me?”

First Published in Jam Tarts