I was born in this house
of water     salt on every wall      my father
was the oldest running river in the south             flooded

ghost wood I traverse by steamboat in sleep   past
alligators and damkeepers dreaming    swamp tupelo

surrendered at the fall of Metairie        I was his

deathbed daughter and nothing more        the arpeggio
of endless rain that repelled him    twenty years estranged
with his cowboy boots beneath my bed         when I was born

I created a world he couldn’t survive      my mother
was the failed apostle that carried me home     the phone call
he made when he was still lucid    asking me to help him        

repent before the storm came           I believed

he could be saved now that he didn’t have the energy
to be cruel      old and useless and so small

it makes me sick          swimming past chimneys
to escape the stench    I find his house

his dreamless body by the door            

the Mississippi River is running backwards    
and his mouth is agape like the choir

boy he used to be 

—Spencer Jewell

Poet’s Website, Instagram

< BACK | NEXT >

TABLE OF CONTENTS