Camping with my Father

By Emily Tallman

You showed me how to build a fire

and bandage my own wounds,

where to find the best swimming holes,

how to cross a creek on slippery stones.

You taught me fiddleneck, lupine, thistle,

to recognize the three leaves of poison oak,

and how to hold a lizard’s tail

until it dropped into my hand.

I learned to swim underwater

by clinging to your back in the cold lake.

When I was out of breath I’d squeeze your shoulder,

and we’d come up for air.

I still hear your voice saying the names

of birds, and what to do if I get lost:

sit still where you are

and wait for me to find you.

Back to Index