that will disintegrate in 1,000 years I drink my coffee stand in gravel
in my church skirt black velvet I wore to my mother’s funeral
eleven days ago Take a photo
of my own shadow on the railroad tracks to Snapchat
to my daughters while this river outside
my parents’ house is risen higher than in years
spillways opened live oaks sunk in mud grass
littered with plastic bags and beer cans Levee trash: a photo essay,
my former self might think that self so well versed in irony
that careful daughter who would take notes
on weeds and garbage and shut her notebook now on the levee
a white truck speeds by too fast
maybe a man who picks up shifts on rigs for extra money
and in a former life I’d write a poem
about how that man might be dangerous
to my daughters now I write
nothing
I am here to walk off my restless
sadness to walk off my mother’s voice
years ago after the storm when the city flooded telling me she will never
leave New Orleans no matter
how high water rises or how many times levees breach telling me
she will die in her house
no evacuations no hospitals
Now I know grief has its own topography mine is
this city and this coast
_____
Image By: USACE via flickr