appalachia, underwater
no i won’t trust the current
this isn’t a cleansing
fuck noah and his diamond ark
our roofs are sinking beneath the water
silt-made stillness runs down
undelivered
I’m watching my body drown on instagram
the messages switch to infection-green
chin-high catastrophe
web-cams dark
even the surveillance
won’t hold
news, curfew, shelter in
place I
know this
place I am this
place
red shoveled
samaritans won’t you
answer me answer the
lines down
kicking out
no one text me everyone
comfort me, the animal trying
to climb out and up
my own shoulders
like a powerline like the
black bears who
scrabbled fifty
feet high in the oak before
the clouds cracked
sick, expectant
there’s a sound
a high flexing pitch
my messages won’t deliver
tell me you’re
okay tell me you’re
safe are you there are you
here are you I can only watch
the river eat my
own face
on twitter
but this is what we get
right
this is what they say we
deserve
after the storm
most losses I still want to talk about.
I’m tempted by the tending—
I can either bow down and blabber
or enjoy another dream about drowning.
my accent comes crawling back
mid-conversation,
buckteeth bloody.
I spit recognition in the sink and
leave dinner early,
itching, pissed off
over god and other betrayals.
before bed,
I consider lowering my arms.
I consider taking aim.
I consider planting
both feet
in both worlds.
then again, the water.
cars filling up.
memories of the storm i wasn’t
home for.
each night
the grief of a nightmare reveals itself—
in waking,
the pain is suddenly
made fiction, my agony
unjustified.
Kelsey Day is a writer from southern Appalachia, writing about land and liberation. You can read more of their work at www.kelseydays.com.