Multnomah Dreams

There’s a Pacific Bigfoot and an Appalachian one,

depending on who you ask. Mine takes my hand

and leads me through the Smokies, across

fallen dogwoods and blankets of ash. “Oh look,

the mountain is out today,” he says, pointing further

than my eyes can follow.

The Watauga River connects to the Willamette

if you squint your eyes, turn the map

on its side, take a few liberties. I’m sure

that’s how Lewis and Clark got there,

through wistful thinking and dumb luck.

We follow their ancient path out West,

hiding during the day and fearfully running

in the night.

In the end, my Appalachian Bigfoot looks at me

full of sorrow, delivers me to Pacific Bigfoot

like a refugee mother would her child to safety.

He glances over his hairy shoulder on his way out,

doesn’t need to say a word. I know that

I will miss him too.

Pacific Bigfoot leads me to our new home,

far beyond the falls, across beds of pine

and blankets of moss. We find a man lost

along his journey, jittery and itchy and beaten

down. Bigfoot extends a kindness to the man,

gives him water when he asks. Looks him

in the eyes and says, “I’m sorry.

I wish I could do more.”