Classic and Contemporary Poetry
OVER THE CHILKOOT TRAIL, by LISA D. CHAVEZ First Line: I still recall the details of that day Subject(s): Gold; Yukon Territory | ||||||||
I still recall the details of that day, how he trotted up the walk calling out in a voice bell-clear with excitement. How I stepped outside, pie in my hands heavy as an infant. "I'm going to the Klondike," he said and the pie dropped, crust exploding, yolk-yellow crescent moons of peaches bleeding into the dust. My skirt and shoes sticky with the spattered syrup. And him, contrite, handling me gently as a frightened animal. As he wiped at my clothes, I felt myself go silent as stone. Hours later, the ants drew thick black lines through the ruined pie, drunken insects drowning in golden juice. When we stood there, before the long throat of the Chilkoot trail, I thought of those ants again. A dusting of snow like the sugar I sifted on my pies, and broad lines of men surging up the trail like disorderly ants. Among them was my Joe -- my dead mother's walnut dining table strapped to his back. Sentimental, yes, but I had foolishly insisted, so he struggled up the pass, his love for me borne heavily by his body. I waited with sacks of provisions, foot resting on my Singer sewing machine, another whim Joe patiently carried. Single men laughed, called us cheechakos, fools, worse. But I had seen the young wives left at home, hands restless with loneliness as they fiercely knitted items they sent north. I would not remain behind. Joe said it was only for a season, but I also knew how men, like ants, grow drunk and drown in their dreams of gold. When Joe shouldered the last bag onto his back, I followed him up. Reaching the top, mud-spattered, winded, sore I gazed down on the town turned tiny, and the sea beyond. Then I turned my back forever on the known world. The years flew by like the first snowflakes of fall. Two years in Dawson City, where I saw men grow rabid as dogs out of greed, saw men shot over cards in the gambling house, saw fresh-faced girls turn bitter and hard in a season. We never found gold. I sewed miner's clothes, and endless procession of parkas and pants, and I served many a meal at my mother's table for a dime. It kept us alive. Two years in the Klondike, til the dream of gold played out, and the boom faded from the town the way color drains from a dying rainbow trout. Then we moved on, traveling down the Yukon's great spine. A year spent in a canvas tent in Circle City Where I held a baby on my lap as I sewed, Wedged between the walnut table and the barrel stove. Then here, to this town on a gentle river, To the house Joe built, where the table now resides. We ate here together everyday until he died. Now I sit here, my hands caressing every scratch and scar in this old wood, telling you how half a century ago your grandfather lugged a table through the wilderness out of love. My hands read the marks in the wood like Braille, a lifetime's tally of journeys, of people and places long ago left behind. Copyright © Lisa D. Chavez http://www.unl.edu/schooner/psmain.htm Prarie Schooner is a literary quarterly published since 1927 which publishes original stories, poetry, essays, and reviews. Regularly cited in the prize journals, the magazine is considered one of the most prestigious of the campus-based literary journals. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HEART OF THE SOURDOUGH by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE LAW OF THE YUKON by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE LOW-DOWN WHITE by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE PROSPECTOR by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE SPELL OF THE YUKON by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE TRAMPS by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE LAND GOD FORGOT by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE YUKON'S SONG OF THE GOLD by AMELIA WOODWARD TRUESDELL |
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