Under Each Rock, by Janice Colman

Under Each Rock 
an Excavation 
 
I am on a search for a word. Something like sea eagle or goose, 
perhaps French Angelfish, Bald Eagle or Emperor Penguin. 
 
How a winged word circles back, meaning enfolds meaning embraces. I am on a
search for a word, a winter wrap-around, like cashmere or horsehair. I remember
our horse-driven sleigh ride through Central Park. We roomed at the Plaza. There
were chandeliers in the bathrooms. Can you think of a word? 
 
It doesn’t have to be fancy or have many syllables. It need not be a rare gem: Pinite,
Tanzanite, Red Beryl, Black Opal (creamy white with exploding inner hues) or
even Alexandrite. It could be as simple as a tablecloth or birthday hat
or handkerchief (linen, embroidered with initials). It could be as convoluted as a
slinky. 
 
Particulars: Am I seeking a Hollywood noun-star? Can I lasso a modifier or verb & 
what tense? I have a fondness for past-perfect because my past is so im(perfect). On
pre-arranged rocks I perch & watch the Etobicoke Creek swerving deep brown,
having to do with mud and sediment dredged— 
 
Having to do with mud and sentiment. Why does a river rush when it has company
for dinner including one chatty forest and four dogs meandering? Is the word
meander? Or are there words, not just one, random stars strung together like a
necklace or bracelet or balanced like a stacked stone sculpture. Or not a word,
instead, an image? The way, when I remove my glasses, stars show themselves in
the stream umbra brown (not the stars— fluorescent white with wingtips depending
on how light rays strike). Do hues strike and wound? 
 
Is there a word for when my heart is about to pounce, that moment before so tightly
wound, before the hunt before the prey, before I came to sit here at Etobicoke Creek
with four dogs of different hues & head shapes, according to whim, according to
fancy. Whimsy is also a word. 
 
Whimsy is the way I sit on this rock-stack randomly arranged, while canines bark
across the creek. We thought we were alone. Beneath these rocks shaped like a
whale’s fin or imprinted with the Blue Heron’s toe stalks or mollusc. Under each
rock is a word. I am going to excavate words. Maybe an expression, something you
share with stars or creeks or canines, a string of words that warms and elicits
laughter. That warms like a Mylar thermal blanket for first aid kits & natural
disasters to retain body heat and maintain warmth (pack of 10) meaning
hypothermia (physical or psychological) which can be symptomatic of word-
deficiency or prolonged hunger for the right word⎯

The heart freezes over or so it seems. I used to watch the minnows pooling. In this
creek where the water is clear & swirls around my ankles, circles swim around my
shins. Now, the creek’s mud-guts (scraped from an epithelial once smooth) in
swarms racing over the creek’s surface swell, a mob that loots young saplings,
flattens bedrock. Once I hailed forest footprints by name: Northern Otter, Redhead
Duck, Snowshoe Hare. 
 
What are the three types of haemorrhage? arterial bleeding / venous /
bleeding capillary in spurts or flows steadily or trickles / from the body
bleeding from arteries & veins. My mind thick as mud, wilful, woebegone
& raging, arterial also venous. Farewell, my umwelt as I lean into the
ambiance of rock, river, tree, Maple or Sycamore beside-me-now almost
bent, broken nearly. In my garden lives a community where stems pop
when there is hurt when there is hunger. Today the giant Hosta in my
garden is dying. 
 
My son-in-law is a philosopher. My younger daughter, a poet. My eldest sings, full
voice, crescendo. I am Sea Eagle, sometimes Goose or French Angelfish, 
Bald Eagle, Emperor Penguin. I am the forest loquacious, whale’s fin, mollusc,
meandering canine. I am the swell, footprints fading or forgotten, Blue Heron with
long legs and thin searching toes. Umgebungen is another word. 
 
The outer world, so fragile. The bear resides in a wood & an amoeba lives in a
pond. The bear lacks the ability to see the amoeba; the amoeba, the ability to see the
bear. Neither can see the Umgebung. My grandmother wore a cotton corset. 
Channeling is the fabric that encases the boning in a corset. When I unfasten
the cinchier of my own umwelt, I waver. Then I enter yours. ​

Janice Colman

Born in Montreal in 1948, Janice Colman is an emerging Toronto poet, Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Martha Award recipient, and a two-time Toronto Arts Council grant recipient. Her work has been published in the temz Review, filling Station, Arc, long con Magazine, The New Quarterly, Freefall Magazine, and Over/Exposed Lit. Janice is the mother of two powerful daughters and the human guide of an 8-dog trail-hiking pack.