the dirty river

i grew up south of the dirty river

two miles west from a broken down

roadside, beside a cluster of cracked

trailers and yellow flowers poking out

of the dry dirt. as a pint-sized child barely

old enough to pronounce my father’s name

i would run through the labyrinthian darkness of

the tattered forests, tripping over thick branches

and feeling the gumballs sting

the bottom of my bare feet,

i would run and i would run

towards the light. towards the clarity of the blue the brightness melting into my eyes as i made my way to the river. and i would stare at the dirty river. i would stare at the shadows of fish floating under the muddy waters, i would stare at the specks of dirt drifting soberly through the winds and the water

this was love

this was quiet

this was peace

this was

home.

the dirty river was my soul.

the water had my heart

in its murky clutches,

the dirt had my essence.

i breathed through that

dirty water

as if i had gills in my chest

instead of lungs

and then i got old and the city choked me.

the city forced me up for air because the city didn’t know i had gills and they destroyed me. it wasn’t the city’s fault it was mine for not speaking up but it choked me. the dark crunchy forests became a rugged old strip mall

and the dirty river became

a parking lot shrouded in gray.

and my home was no more.

but still i remember fondly

all those fantastic mornings i

spent dancing around trees and

running my little feet to stare

and play around the dirty river,

and while my dirty river

might be long gone it warms my bones

to know that there are plenty of other rivers

still out there, somewhere in this vast, incredible world,

just as dirty and just as lovely

as my own dirty river.