by Noah Meier
I haven’t experienced a summer of freedom since I was thirteen years old.
Before the swamp flushed me out of her,
legs still young and dripping with sandy loam, tangled, maybe amongst the tupelo
and the cypress had never been prettier.
My muddy dizzied self would shut my eyes facing the world. Before letting go entirely,
letting the wet dirt eat me up. Nature always wins,
she always feeds, she is always satisfied when all
is said and done. I wish to find some similar position, a life where I am constantly fed and waded
An urban Southern revival of a dead god commits their final summoning sin by stealing a life
among the Spanish moss from my bare childish hands.
Lead me, then, to the ultimate release!
Into lightness! May I find peace, for once!
Oh, from the loneliest of nights, algae growing on what is left of me when the world is over, bloated, rotting and meaningless and yes,
I beg of you, let the alligators have what remains.