Two Poems
In the Summer of the Great Flood
before the sky has gone to weeping, the trees
are scarred & bleeding sap. Chewed to ruin
by moths building tents in their leaves. Behind
the rusted pipe in the back field, a boy picks flowers
for his mother. Daisies. Chrysanthemums. In truth,
they are only dandelions but he pretends them
to be something more. The mother trims their stems
& sets them to soak in a vase full of water. A garden
hose pours down the gentle slope of the front lawn,
showers onto black plastic that has been laid down
for sliding. At its feet a small pool of muddy water
which looks to the boy as though it must be
the clearest lake in all the world. The creek
down the road is low red mud. It cakes on the boy’s shoes,
makes dusty rings around his ankles. He wades in
to catch crawfish. Grabs them by the tail
& plops them in Mason jars. The mother tells him
not to bring them in the house, the filthy beasts.
The boy’s GI Joes have their legs bound at the boot
with long strands of yarn. They plummet off the bridge,
kiss the surface of the stream, are then rocketed back
in the air. The sun is loud, always yelling,
always making the boy’s skin crawl with fire. There is
so much red, everywhere. In the water. In the soil.
In the scorch of the boy’s arms & neck. He rides his bike
up the path. Races his best friend to the Secret Place,
the deepest bend in the creek where huge rocks came
crashing down so long ago, made a bowl
or a crater or a bottomless pit. Just before the rains come,
the boy looks over the trickle of Deer Creek.
Just look at all that water he gasps.
If only we could swim.
Deer Creek, Revisited
By the time we make our exit
the water has already risen past
my knees, roaring like an open
flame. It rumbles greedy,
ready to devour, a swirl of tan bark,
mud, dead branches, debris.
Mother turns the key but the car won’t
start. The engine groans and clicks
the rhythm of despair. Rubber loses
its grip on the soil, and we float
with the current towards the tooth gap
where the bridge should be,
down the driveway, under the streetlight
which just yesterday marked the end
of the day’s playtime, rushing past
the row of mailboxes upturned,
over the rocks and into the whirlpool,
the ever open mouth of the river,
and the windows shatter
and the tide floods in
and oxygen leaves us a ghost
and we sleep in soft water
and this new sea swallows us
and spits out our bones
William James writes poems and listens to punk rock—not always in that order. He’s an editor at Drunk In A Midnight Choir and a two-time Pushcart nominee whose poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Noble Gas Quarterly, Electric Cereal, Misfit Magazine, and Word Riot among others. His first full length collection Rebel Hearts & Restless Ghosts is forthcoming from Timber Mouse Publishing.