On the marsh side of the tree line,
I walked up on a row of cairns last summer
stacked tall with rocks from God
knows where, knee-high and perfectly
aligned with the stand of scrub oak
guarding the water. The air
on the other side of the trees always
carried musk, and there was no doubt
there’d be big tracks scattered
in the dark mud along the bank.
No way to know it then, but that night
wind blew water inland from the Gulf.
The flood leveled off right at the height
of those cairns. And when it backed off,
it left a smell so hairy you could
almost see its arms full of flat rocks,
its red eyes fading into the tree trunks
like warnings you’d have to cross a line to read.
–
Jack B. Bedell is a professor of English and coordinator of creative writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s latest collection, Color All Maps New, was released in early 2021 by Mercer University Press. He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.