Crossing Over the Moose
by Beth Kanell, 2023
It’s a funny name for a diner. Newcomers
stare around: the sign says Mooselook,
and maybe the back table will show them one.
Antlers! Long legs! Maybe they even cook
wild harvests here. If deer meat is venison
and pigs become pork, what do you call—
they scan the menu, but there’s no sign
of butchered moose at all.
Tentative, uncertain, they work their way
through blue-plate names, special dishes.
The waitress, bright smile, sparkling stud
at the side of her nose, collects wishes
for eggs over easy, a turkey plate with just
a little gravy. Home fries on the side, much
ordered, always piping hot. Pickled beets.
Vermont homestyle with a chef’s touch.
Me, I take my usual table, watch the door,
see who’s coming in—I have a hunch
that my two friends may be running late
but they’re on time for noon lunch.
With a nod to the window, satisfied,
they note the water view, smile:
It’s the Moose River out there, wide
as the day’s options. Framed in style.
Going home after, I cross the bridge
while at the water’s edge a man stands
patient with a fishing rod. I pass; he reels
his line back in, casts, capable hands.
People who haven’t lost don’t guess
the way old passions stir and swirl below.
There was a man who kept my heart. He died.
I find him in each new crossing. I think he’d know.
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| View of the Moose, from the Mooselook Diner. |
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| Mooselook Diner's Kevin Fontecha, with the published poem. |
AND: If you'd like to get a copy of the book, it's on Amazon here!
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