By John Grey
It’s alive here
and yet it seems so dead,
a graveyard of bald cypress,
are adorned with turtle sculptures,
lily pads, frog monuments,
and there, on the surface
of a brown, watery, mausoleum,
two gator eyes freeze solemn.
The air is thick and low
like a shroud,
once floating islands root-bound.
If it weren’t for the slithering cottonmouth,
there’d be no movement here at all.
Signs of life
come down to the deadliest.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review, Thin Air and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.
by Erik Anderson
... Many, if not most, writing students have to produce a version of The Dead Grandmother Essay. It’s almost a rite of passage ...
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... No way in or out but by float plane / or private boat when the river / is high ...