We sat on sagging steps of wood, given to rot
due to wandering water and the passing of time.
Sturdy, stout planks dug through duckweed
and into the dirty depths of Bayou Black.
The caw of a crow cracked the silence.
A tail flicked; an alligator, disturbing
the sun's reflection. I think you pointed to
the water. I was seven. You were sixty-something.
Of the three of us - you, me, and the alligator -
I'm likely the only one alive.
For five years cancer had you, you stubborn
old fool. You refused to die upon the word
of a doctor. You went when you were ready,
asleep, in your own bed. Away from your son
and your grandkids, but by your wife.
You turned into ashes in an urn.
Perhaps a hunter killed the alligator.
Now its scaly skin is considered couture.
Or, perhaps, I just don't see it anymore,
since I don't have your guidance, pointing
me to the water. Your leathery skin always
dressed in long sleeves, always in plaid,
even in the Louisiana heat and humidity.
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a/n:
Inspired by Czeslaw Milosz's "Encounter"
YOU ARE READING
A Mind Beneath the Waves
Poetry"I was seven. You were sixty-something. Of the three of us -- you, me, and the alligator -- I'm likely the only one alive." ☾✩☽ "... indigo velvet curling around you. Sleek and electric blue, you stand wreathed in flowers" ☾✩☽ "...I would like...
