Witching
The man who witched bought three sticks:
one like a breastbone from a giant crow,
one a cherry slingshot, forked and polished.
The third was wired, broken at the union
by a pull beneath the earth against
both hands. He showed me calluses.
We hiked in where I’d seen the buck
standing on the quarry ledge, up ahead
the rise of cedars where we built the house.
Stumbling over roots and braches, he
pitched behind what seemed a walking plow.
He held the handles of his stick mid-air
without a steel cutting edge or horse,
then cursing, flung the rod aside to rub
his blistered palm. People here say
by now he’s fooled himself. He grabbed
my hand, cupped it over his to feel
the quiver, the heat of the broken stick.
But when he asked if I believed in dowsing,
I couldn’t say I did. I said I believed
he had a map inside, hidden lakes and rivers.
I said enough to make him laugh and get me
off the question. Even now, drinking water
from the well, I think he knew his craft
and how to shuffle through the leaves, arms
straight out like a sleepwalker. In stutter
step, shake and stagger, walk high on water.
