Current Issue: Spring/Summer 2011

Interpolated Steps  
Eddy Roberts

She ventured there many times and was preparing to go again.
I was anxious to hear and see, to have the story revealed.
One drowsy afternoon, perched upon her lap, I listened.
Her wrinkled face stared into the middle distance.
As I gazed into her widening eyes,
she gently stepped backward.

The things she described seemed impossible.
My eager imagination claimed otherwise.

I lived with her at the time
and over the course of weeks after sundown, I would visit her.
Stepping softly in the darkness, I would crawl into bed with her.

She spoke in a wary, hushed voice as if others were listening.
I recall her soft incantations; bones, rare stones, relics from another time.
The click, click, click of the old time-piece was overtaken by her voice in the darkness.

The earth
browns, and violet, the blushing sky,
the first glimpse of daylight.
Nomadic animals move gently,
Massive undulating forms lay placidly in the distance
vertical projections interrupt their smooth contours.

All is still,
there is no sound.

Gradual illumination,
the veil of darkness lifts.

Tan and dull orange,
the rich earthy smell of damp soil, uncovered.
Reflections from scattered, flat stones
bright and warm.

Blue stretches on with no end.

Features remain
abandoned
unaltered
by the weeks, months, years
unmoving,
unaffected by human presence.

She inhales.

Walking
shifting
avoid the hazards; cacti, sharp stones, areas too steep.

Vast distances, illusion
Keep going, keep looking.
Circling birds cast shadows,
watching, waiting
The sun
high overhead.

Fragrance of flowers,
a floral oven.

Large piles of stone: deep red, brown, strong, proud,
like the displaced, who once lived here.

Survey. Burrow. Sift and seek.
Artifacts and arachnids.

Her voice; watch for snakes.
Don't step in the quicksand.
Make noise, scare the carnivores, keep an eye out,

Pulled by my shoulder, caught on thorns. Tearing free,
my feet dragging across the gravel.

Down there, the creek bed
that is where I'll find them
the lost, the rare.

Loose stone, she said, keep your balance.
Peripheral movement,
the darting of a small ancestor, pales compared to the movements
of a galloping Torosaur.

I heard the stories, I read the books, I saw the drawings. I have expectations.

Jump down onto the bed, all smooth stones and soft silt.

I adjust my position, the smell of warm earth and Vick's VapoRub in my nostrils.

The embankment casts a narrow shadow,
escape from the sun.
I remove the blanket, crouch down to feel the shade,
the cooling breeze.

I envision the treasures, shimmering coins, petrified trilobites,
Indian arrowheads, lights outside the window.

I dig into the creek wall, convinced it is just beyond the surface.
Dust hovering in the air,
the embankment, undermined, collapses.
Sip water and move on.

Out of the creek and up the other side.

Continue walking, the sun on a smooth downward arc.

She exhales.

An elevated clearing, I look in all directions,
From here, I appreciate the vastness.

Continue walking, easier now,
gliding past the rough places and pitfalls.
Moving forward without effort, hovering above the ground.

The sound of rhythmic breathing flows over me,
the familiar clicks at regular intervals.

Slipping from the layers
I am at the foot,
gazing at her profile.

Time to go back.

Goodnight.

Eddy Roberts lives and works in Sarasota, FL as a full-time faculty member at the Ringling College of Art and Design. He is educated as a graphic designer and has written numerous poems and short stories. He has been crafting words and images since 1995.