Toward Memphis, 1

And there’s a kind of loss, an inattention,
a meaning less because driving from here to that space
is just driving while I need to find a way to be
–from “The Clearing” by Christopher Gilbert

A feeling, even when we’re sure of ourselves
and our direction, of never

quite arriving, that there’s always
a just-farther-beyond, bridges
to the other side of rivers, highways toward hills

or the horizon, along the way

barns and old cars fading back into the earth
at edges of fields. And that

more and more we’re
having to relearn, make time for, what was
a given between us. The place

we’re headed is simply downriver.

Will it change anything, going there? You said,
Let’s go. We can meet up

with our friends, connect. And then added, even
connect with history
while we’re there—as if that’s something one

can do. Chances
for road trips don’t come

like they used to. I don’t have the time. People

seem farther away.
I seem farther. Even you.

Toward Memphis, 2

Lake Itasca, Minnesota, source of the Mississippi

Trying to capture the essence of anything rare,

or at least what’s genuinely
novel, in this case a river’s origin, as if that’s
the answer when absences

seem to ring truer than presences, the small mouth
or eye or eardrum that is

the self needing to be filled, a fear
of emptiness, a lot of visual
noise, people disturbing the calm

of what I’m trying
to catch at just the point where still water

slips into current, cropping
them out with my aim of the lens, people like me
with their own

cell phones shifting to get the right angle
on a photo and a post,

among the crowd a high-school group––their
hoodies and caps
with the symbol of the four directions, the four

colors––having fun by the water, a few

wading in ankle deep,
splashing each other, cold as the water is, taking
selfies at the source. You can

cross from one side
of what will be the river’s vastness

to the other in a few steps on stepping stones there

just for that. We’ve walked by
a small restoration project of the path, so now
and then the hard

pounding of air compressor, jack hammer.
After reading every

word displayed on information kiosks we learn
we’ve walked .3 miles to get here.
What else is there to find? How far can we go?

Can these waters renew us?

Brian Satrom’s poetry collection Starting Again was released by Finishing Line Press in 2020. His poetry has appeared in a variety of journals, most recently UCity Review and Sugar House Review (where it received a Pushcart Prize nomination), and is forthcoming in the anthology The Overturning. Brian’s work has also been featured on Verse Daily and Vandal Poem of the Day. After completing his MFA at the University of Maryland, he lived in Madison, Wisconsin, and Los Angeles before settling in Minneapolis. You can find more about him at briansatrom.com.