Vacation

such young girls 
on their way
to the everglades 

not a mission trip
but they’re so excited
I think they might 

try to grow a god 
out of the swamp
they don’t know

there are more 
than enough already
they ask me all sorts 

of questions when 
I say that’s where
I’m from and I tell them

things that we each 
could have guessed 
and then the stories

about the shifting depths
of the water and the way 
the mangroves bend 

their backs in bows
sinking one hand 
into the sucking 

sandy floor and reaching 
the other over the canal 
to brush the fingertips 

of those across the way
they grow this close but
never fully blend branches

always leaving 
at least a slight channel
no    not for us 

the cypress trees sit 
like children 
thighs against chests

their lower halves 
submerged 
we only see torsos

and folded knees
breaching the black water
I tell them everything 

that I can imagine 
the only detail
I leave out is that

I remember just enough 
to know that I don’t
have any idea anymore 

and soon they’ll be 
telling me what 
I can’t give names to

the clouds how
they hang the same 
heavy way

teeth fit in a mouth