Something in the Water
Verboten, casual, Katrina-slash-this-is-the-writer’s-life poem,
another rule breaker best abandoned. At sea.
Overboard in a wine bottle, in a milk jug float.
The words swim down and I packrat them all.
Anything else would feel like choosing between my sons
who aren’t twins exactly, but enough alike
that their lost teeth, first locks of hair
make a mumbo jumbo in my jewelry box.
I’d look up from the writing of this poem
but for the hex: voodoo doll on my desk
courtesy of the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club.
The greats have their subjects: love, sex, death.
I have mine: hurricane Katrina, Mardi Gras,
time passes me by with moonscape, owl, and merlot.
Editors pass me by—Alison, it’s hard to get excited
about Katrina poems as there are so many.
So quick to write me off. They should give thanks.
I could be the quack who sends a soul food
curtal sonnet, or exercise bulimic sister-in-law haiku.
A poem a day about my children their muddy feet
stuck in boots, rattle of pocket treasures in the dryer.
My darlings, who believe that sea glass could be
Poseidon’s knuckle bones, a yarn I came up with
to keep them busy while I draft my Deep South
Canterbury Tales called “Something in the Water.”
Up at five to sift the oyster flesh of my brain
for pearls of words. Kids at the door, begging,
May we PLEASE have some breakfast! Yesterday,
mind ablaze, I wrote about this man with a mole
in the center of his forehead that I took
for a bullet hole—he even dragged a zombie leg—
and thought it was a great way to spend my time.
Alison Pelegrin’s poetry collections include Big Muddy River of Stars (University of Akron Press, 2007) and The Zydeco Tablets (Word Press, 2002). Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, and The Southern Review. She received a Creative Writing Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.
