The roads are furrows in the green, troughs
carved through to Florence from the beach. The heat grows
as we go along. Soon the day lilies
will break through the road banks, and the trees
will stay green. The growth, I’m saying, expands
in the coming summer–wild and rampant
the yellow dandelions cultivate
from their white youth. Like fat or like tissue
or marrow growing to look all the same—
because it is living, it will change.
Not like this poem, or the hospital—
temple which will just simply fade after all
of us have ceased dying, or have just died.
It’s like dad–bone-strong, and, for now, alive.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 3.
Nick Powell is from Hemingway, South Carolina. He received his Bachelors and Masters from Coastal Carolina University. He is currently working at Lowe’s and applying to MFA programs.
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