I lose control on Route 250
Where the algae stagnates
Tappan Lake into the murky solution
That the locals drink filtered, chlorine
It's a strange musicality:
The wheels' transference
from asphalt's hum to water's splash—
The water that was dammed
Two generations ago,
excess rushing through
A whole community of homes,
Burying Indian burial grounds.
The locals say you can still hear
The war hoops.
car settled in a foot of mud,
I watch catfish swim
outside my window,
watch them swim
through the windows of abandoned
houses. Pressurized wood slivers
frame families' houses
and stick to the fishes mouths.
My own family so far away.
I wonder if they will commemorate
me with another pink ribbon wrapped
cross, another Dollar General wreath.