by Jack Bedell
Mostly, the men sat back-to-back under
a makeshift lean-to staring out
at opposite ends of the same horizon.
Survivorman did a fine job of cutting
all the saplings the right length
and finding enough bushy fir branches
to make the shelter pretty watertight
in case any squalls came rolling in
from Canada. The fir needles
smelled fantastic all week, but the structure
was a little short, and Jarmusch’s
feet stuck out the end the first couple
of nights until they got used to sleeping together
and formed a pretty natural spoon.
Survivorman spent his mornings
walking the water’s edge, talking to his camera
on a stick about how even in this remote
wilderness there were always plastics
available along the banks he could use
for fishing, or for holding piss in the event
they wanted to try distilling some fresh
water from it just to pass some time.
Jarmusch liked to hang back conserving
his energies, laid up on the giant-ass
log-sized driftwood sprawled out around the camp.
He spent whole days pantomiming smoking,
really digging into the essence of the movement.
By the time the sun started to set, Survivorman
would be back to spread all the shit he’d
collected throughout the day—fishing line,
old gas cans, a hand full of berries he said
tasted like sassafras beer. He’d build a ginormous
fire and start playing the Blues on his harmonica.
Jarmusch loved walking to the other side
of the fire to listen. He said the dark over there
felt like a hug. On the last morning
they kicked dirt on the fire pit, and covered
it with the fir branches off the lean-to.
Wasn’t much beach along the water,
but they walked it toward the coffee shop in town.
Jarmusch kept his hands in his pockets the whole
walk, and Survivorman fussed with water on his lenses.
****
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Editor of Louisiana Literature Journal and Press at Southeastern Louisiana University. His latest collection is Fight Nights (Blue Horse Press, 2025). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.