Grace O'Donnell
You Will Never Be in New Orleans for this Long Again
You will never be in New Orleans for this long again,
my therapist tells me.
So I let
the future regret
sink beneath my skin.
Blues isn’t corny,
it’s true.
And I wish this band
would play me
a song to live.
On the car ride home,
his soulful voice tells me
you go on and cry.
And I do.
I Remember
I remember
trying to float on my back
at the beach with my mother.
I see her floating now
as I did then,
wearing her sunglasses
into the sea,
eyes closed beneath the lenses.
Her expression always the same:
lips slightly pursed,
the rest of her face slack.
I wasn’t made of the same stuff,
so I always sank.
I watched as her body washed into the water
around us,
the waves lapping
at her hairline,
between her fingers and palms,
loosely upturned.
​
Me standing upright,
and her on her back.
an open ocean
of space
between us.
I Knew It Was Time to Surrender
I knew it was time to surrender,
surrounded by soft shades of brown.
From the milky coffee the boat floated on
to the bald cypress trees
draped with Spanish moss,
the guide’s thems and yalls melting on air.
Even the name
was Honey Island Swamp.
I remember my Spanish professor
used to drink coffee
well into the afternoon.
When it was my turn to conjugate the verb,
my body
broke down.
His eyes pleaded with me.
He knew I could do it.
So I forced myself.
But I don’t force myself anymore.
I want to melt into this boat,
into this swamp,
well past dark.
Here where the warm mud bottom
never ends.
Grace O'Donnell (she/her) is currently in her last semester at Hampshire College, working on a collection of poetry and art called, From the Vault. Her writing explores mental illness, feminism and nature.