Bayou Dream
The water was tea-dark and wide,
a Louisiana mirror where you, grandpa, waited in the boat,
patient and quiet as the ancient, moss-draped cypress.
But the water called to me first,
and I slipped into the warm, heavy mouth of the bayou,
letting the slow, steady pulse of the lake pull me away.
Downstream I drifted, weightless and wandering,
while the shadows beneath my kicking feet grew teeth.
I thought of the armored leviathans,
the alligators lurking in the sunken reeds,
and the murky deep suddenly felt terrifyingly vast.
Then, upon a drowned oak limb, a miracle of venom:
a coral snake coiled in the swollen, golden sun.
Not the earthly bands of warning, but a prism—
a living rainbow woven into scales, breathtaking and bright.
I floated past in silent reverence,
mesmerized by the deadly jewel
suspended above the black water.
Only when the water carried me safely away
did the cold sweat of reason strike my skin.
It could have unspooled its painted spine,
parted the current, and kissed me with absolute sleep.
And in that gasp of mortal clarity, I remembered you.
You were upstream. Waiting. Perhaps scanning the horizon, worried.
I threw my arms against the heavy tide.
I fought the river, pulling myself past the rotting wood
of forgotten fishing shacks, their tin roofs rusting in the heat.
My breath burned, my muscles wept,
churning the dark water white to get back to you,
desperate to close the terrible distance my drifting had made.
I pushed through the brutal weight of the river,
reaching for the bow of your boat,
reaching for your outstretched hand—
but my eyes snapped open to the dry, empty room.
The current wasn’t the bayou, and the serpent wasn’t the danger;
I had been swimming against time itself,
and you were already on the other side.
