ISSUE THIRTEEN | FALL 2019
His varicose watershed mopped
up the weed and clover killer, the fertilizer
grew him a foot at least, the river rose
a handful of gams. Here where men were
giant and dead, rheumatisms of cypress
knees. Some buckle. Some unbuckle.
The mussels did tsk tsk through their beards.
Tonight might be the night. Orange drags through
this memory: the thrill.
That and that his past is a smoke
jettied both ways, age-old decisions staged
between his lips just lit. His hand dips
to pet the razor clams mouthing the camp,
clapping back at his life well done, though slow
cooked at a steady ninety-eight
degrees for a century and some change.
Can't we the crock-potted be thankful for the church
of cells? Without their prayer of death, we might live
forever. Imagine, oh the nerve, never ending.
Henry Goldkamp is in Gentilly, New Orleans. Recent work appears in Diagram, Indiana Review, Barrow Street, Notre Dame Review, and South Carolina Review. His public art projects have been covered by Time and NPR.
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