—after Bachelin
Always an angry wind. Sky
like smeared ink. Marsh grass
bent away as salt water
creeps in through the canal. Cypress
knots poked up
along the path, no trees alive
before the horizon
line. Our hearts, always
left
napping back at camp, unwilling
to leave the glow of bed, dreams
of moon, flowers’ soft
touch:
morning, with cream
for coffee, eggs, open flame
to heat cast iron, butter sizzle.
Water chokes everything here, hungry
for roots, skin, loose threads
hanging from
days’ work, days’
heat
that settles all wind, and voice. This night,
though,
with its dank stars, its
greasy air, sharp reeds no one can
touch. An endless winter
route
which has never led anyone, anywhere.
Header photograph © Jason D. Ramsey.
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in Barren, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Okay Donkey, EcoTheo, The Hopper, Terrain, and other journals. His latest collection is Color All Maps New (Mercer University Press, 2021). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.
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