by Ian U. Lockaby

with Jean Valentine and Poochie Lee

C. on the porch through the veil of green
rain, its careen
off the bayou beyond her as she speaks
with Tony, out of sight—in the soft reek
of swamp-swallowed figs—from where
I stand, in the dark kitchen, and to where
the blackout has travelled this morning from
the devastated port cities right run
out of, with a century of gasoline
filibusters, and in the dark I read a line
—that echoed what my neighbor, Miss Lee,
had hollered after me that day, now
weeks ago, before we fled the storm: how!
Where you going to go? She said, You can
run, but you can’t hide! This is what God gives—

in the dark kitchen, I read it over and over:
“The step you took
no longer there to take…”

 

 

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Ian U. Lockaby is a poet and translator who lives in New Orleans. His poems have been or will be published in Prelude, Fence, Denver Quarterly, Interim Poetics, Posit, Poetry Daily, and in other publications. His translation of “Gardens,” by Chilean poet Carlos Cociña, was published by Cardboard House Press in 2021, and his translations also appear in journals such as Black Warrior Review, Washington Square Review, Arkansas International, and Anomaly. He edits mercury firs, an online journal of poetry and translation, and more of his work can be found at ianlockaby.com