Sunday, September 19, 2010

The Drowning, a Poem by Daren Dean

Out of the hazelnut thickets,
Stepping through the canebrakes,
and walking through the drainage ditch

a body was lying in Hungry Mother Creek,
silent, on porous rock;
looking down, stepping back in the ankle-deep,

icy pool approaching against gagging tide,
waterbug ripples spent themselves against
her face, her long hair, and a white gold

cross where the chain bit a puffy burgundy
lesion around it in a ring,
almost expecting her name or help

to be spelled out on her pallid skin
but how long ago a rounded cheek
was fair and perhaps a boy had nuzzled

in the crook between her neck
and shoulder blade?
Running through the windbreak of ash,

pine, evergreen, and the scent of blood
surrounded me and I found an old buddy
and we drank out of fruit jars

and shot clay pigeons with shotguns
He told me to call the authorities.
When I said no, he shook his head:

Time will tell, he said as he turned the bottle
up to see the glassine bead bob as he drank.

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