parked outside the house she used to live,
she says she remembers a neighborhood
holding its head above water, last breaths
burning through chimneys raised in prayer.
the interstate was a river that day, flooded
with the growl of thunder and car engines
as desperate eyes watched the rearview.
twenty years have piled on and she swears
there's something of hers still left here:
she will not name herself, but her eyes linger
on the ignition like she's looking for the key.
i know in my heart exactly what creaking sound
that porch makes when someone comes home;
i hear it in the stray dog's whine as we drive away.
my father went under whitewater at my age
and holds it somewhere in the canals of his lungs
for three decades before telling me how air is sweet.
i don't forget to float anymore; there's nothing
worth going dark for in the tiles forming a second sky
at the bottom of the pool. on my back, i stare
into more blue above and think of rivers in states
i've never been to. from the recliners, too close
for his comfort, my father hums nightswimming
at the midday sun. my next inhale tastes of cherries
and everything is bitter suddenly, red on my tongue.
when i resurface from the lake that must've been
an ocean playing at gentleness, i see the sign
standing bravely against the high tide: one fifth
of people who drowned here never meant to get wet.
there's nothing tender about clinging to a rock
in a storm, and yet i might whisper to anything
that bothers to save me that it's the softest home
i've ever known. i did that to you once, back when
i thought lightning was a flash of brilliant hope
and not something that would burn you just the same
as a house that wished the waves had found it first.
for a second, you spoke with my father's voice:
there is nothing left for you to find after a flood,
certainly not a home. stay on the right side of seafoam.
far away, a porch sighs under familiar weight and i know
someone decided to hold their breath rather than listen.
yes, the ocean has a way of washing open graves. no,
you shouldn't bring me back alive. it's sweet here too.
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125,024 Literary Works • 672,762 Reviews
hi silv!
it is always amazing to read your poetry; i feel like this poem is an amalgamation of a voice that i distinctly associate as "yours." it's definitely harder to find a niche in poetry rather than, say, prose.
like this line! gorgeous.
i really love this image and the concept of an interstate turning into a river, albeit a flooded one. i think it is a great inversion of two very poetic images into one more complex metaphor later in the poem: the interstate is a way to return home, and in a way, the flooded river is as well. i feel that heavily with "her eyes linger/on the ignition like she's looking for the key" as well, since that shows there is something unfinished to come back to. i mean, how poetic is that!
i interpreted this being about wanting to come home/return to a place, even if it isn't the best for you. that idea is prevalent in many many poems, but i like the approach here. it is really personal and almost contradictory in tone at times, but it works with the internal battle of the narrator (and by association, the father and the "she" referenced throughout.)
i love the later part of the first stanza, but i think the introduction of the narrator is very sudden? i understand that they are from this place as well, or at least deeply connected, but the first stanza was so heavy with the "she" voice that it feels very unnatural to start using "i know" or "i hear" phrases. it asks more questions than anything: who is the narrator in relation to "her"? how do they come into this, as the stanza says "something of hers still left here" and such?
LOVE this! i think referencing a song is a brilliant way to tie in more personal connections, and it's also just really beautiful.
it's really interesting to change to second person! it comes off as very accusatory to me, like the reader is now in the poem. there is a common phenomena with poetry where the reader is cast aside from the poem and exists on a separate "level" of existence beyond everything, but that isn't the case here. the reader of this poem is implicated just as "she" and the father are.
though, once again, i think it is too sudden to know introduce another concept of a person to the poem. there are so many people that i am getting lost on who is who / what they represent? i understand the father exists somewhat antagonistically, as the narrator hears what "we" say in his voice (it would have to be something he'd say on this own accord, maybe?), but i am lost as to who the female in the first stanza is. i could even say that with " i know/someone decided to hold their breath rather than listen" because someone could be rhetorical OR insinuated early in the poem.
stunning ending as always!
the ocean is this scrawling, vast thing, and i love how it is being connected to something more intimate like an open grave. like the people in the poem are implicated, so is the ocean. i really love that personification! it goes nicely with all of the other water imagery in the poem too, like the river from the first stanza; connected, but growing in size.
anyway yeah super sick poetry, a pleasure to read!
best,
chi
Thanks so much chi! Praise and feedback always means a ton coming from an incredible poet like you <3
Lovely story, the structure is there; however the overuse of adjectives can sometimes become too much in a singular sentence. Be careful of your punctuation as well, remember to use capital letters at the beginning of each sentence. Furthermore, each and every letter I (ninth letter of the english alphabet) as well as contractions using the letter I in them as a singular word before being contracted such as I'm. Altogether a simply fascinating and enchanting short fictional story if this is only one wave from you, I’d gladly sit on the shore and wait for the next.. It's extremely charming and I could talk 19 to the dozen about everything I love (but I won't make you wait any longer.)
Thanks Camilla! All capitalization and punctuation choices are intentional, I pinky promise that I understand grammar and that I willingly choose to go about breaking from it. I appreciate the feedback!