Getting Back to the Wetlands

Black-Crowned Night Heron

I, who think too much

about the meaning of words,

the flight of birds, what girds our loins,

was stuck in the national muck,

tide rising up to my chin,

when I thought maybe it’s just me,

trapped in a prison of the mind,

imaginary cinder block atop cinder block

cemented by sticky catchphrases

wafting through this cellblock

like secondhand weed, turning me

into a dancing bear, a laughing hyena,

a chimp throwing shit at the guards

until I am transformed at last

into the black-crowned night heron

I once was, flapping my wings, lifting myself

off the muddy floor, soaring through the bars

coasting on thermals back to the Wetlands

where every creature knows the gator

eats when she’s hungry, and none wonder

what it means or girds a mindless loin

as we build nests above the muck, lay eggs,

guard against hawks and raccoons, watch

for the silent ripple across the dark green pond.

  —SL, Port Royal, SC, Feb. 2025