Landlocked

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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.