We went to the river for driftwood, found only the tire tracks 
of an ATV, Chuck knows a better place but he won’t 
reveal it, it’s okay, we all have our secrets. 

Mine are tucked inside a coffee can on a high shelf in the kitchen, 
sealed against intrusion, I can forget about them for years, 
it’s almost like they’re not there at all. 

On the riverbank the shorebirds poke their beaks into the mud 
at the waterline, I find a small shell and put it in the pocket 
where my secrets used to be, 

before the coffee can, before the forgetting, when they were heavy 
as a burden, dense with obligation, the opposite of driftwood 
and the weightless possibilities of another way to be. 

I think it would be nice if Chuck would take us, just this once, 
to his secret place, I promise to cover my eyes, wear a blindfold, 
I don’t need to know the way. 

I only want to see what’s there when we arrive.