Landlocked

---

Zócalo Public Square, May 2019

The air above this man-made
reservoir turns violent
pink each afternoon. This is a tune

on a guitar I can barely
play. I’ve built
a forest of grief and you

aren’t allowed in.
Fifteen miles from my childhood

home, water still waits
in Osage Pond. Carrots grow
in the garden my mother

abandoned, even beyond
the fence, but the penny-sized frogs
have disappeared. My mind

reaches into my father’s
coffin and finds just silence. I’m sure
that owl on the telephone
pole has nothing to do with me.
I used to dream

my father left me
by accident in our yellow canoe.
I’d wake to
the rhythm of waves

carrying me farther
and farther from shore.