The Old Ghosts Have Drowned
Prose poetry
The old ghosts have drowned — my love’s bridge — wood spinning the eddy of mountain memory — snagged downriver — a tulip poplar, just golden now — its entire trunk, root system, a rabbit, wide-eyed — moving pictures of the party house — a raft of glass, a night of acoustic music, a lightning storm — muddied sets of nylon strings —
you can’t go home again — and we gather the water, the diapers, the food, the propane — load up the trucks, send hope up the road — the ones who stayed — will the horses be fed — the pastures slide and become ocean — the list includes
body bags — they’re needed at basins, in hollers, and new students who lost everything start at our school monday — we’re writing cards of encouragement to children of the flood, and I wish for them magic and repair and rest and fearless sleep.
I am heartbroken for my old home and my dear friends in the Appalachians. May all who suffer know peace.
Samantha Lazar 2024
