First published in Boudin by The McNeese Review
Bald cypress thrusts its knees
in knobby little spires
just above the waterline.
Pumpkin ash bulges
at the base of its trunk,
engorged with brackish
drink. By moonlight,
I can almost discern
the red spikes of cardinal
flowers craning their necks
alongside the river’s
offshoot, the bayou,
with its indecisive flow,
my own directional change
and stagnation and muddied
thoughts poured out before me
in the starry pitch. Insects
exercise their whirring, clicking
voices. I am flooded and ripe
with rot. This swamp needs
a new tree, and I have knees
and full-bodied thirst.
