Southern Childhood by John Grey

This is the delta.
So much water oozes through
and yet it seems to never move.
That's an egret
pecking in its shallows.
And a couple of kids picking pecans.
And a coral snake
slithering across the surface.
Those are mosquitoes, of course,
whirling black clouds
of the miserable biters.

That's the wrought-iron railing
of a verandah.
Those are windows leading to a bedroom,
a fan spinning shadows across the ceiling,
netting draped over the bed.
Someone is screaming below,
"Do not bring that thing into the house."
A boy follows his father
to a favorite fishing hole.
A wild girl trails at a distance.

One child is living in the north now,
another far out in the western mountains.
The others are somewhere beneath
that greenish-white gathering of tombstones.

The air is as hot and steamy as bathwater.
A body wilts just by breathing.
But not all is lost for those born in the bayou.
Memories, at least, can take the heat.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Homestead Review, Harpur Palate and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Roanoke Review, Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.