After the St. Francis Dam
Concrete mostly, fractured spans of
handrails in their new rust, insistent
brown rabbits. Downstream from the floodwave,
now someone’s house, green lawn, the sun
thick with its own agenda.
More rabbits. Ghosts from here
to the ocean though I know days aren’t
made from holding back and watching
bunnies. To think his hand in hers
means the rest of it, entire weeks
unaware of animals burrowing in weeds or
the sound of stone cracking. Of course
Mulholland blamed himself. All the canyon
a scar, a stain, all heat and bare nerve,
the restlessness that comes with waterless places.
–Lisa P. Sutton
My friend LP, AKA Lisa the Poet, came into my life around a lecture delivered by artist Jenny Saville at BU. The rest is history. This poem was recently featured on Zócalo Public Square, the best place to find poetry these days according to LP. I’m not arguing with that since I think this is a fabulous, evocative, hauntingly present poem. LP, I need more of this.