Raging

my daughter called me a whore

By Harper Lewis Published 7 months ago • Updated 7 months ago • 1 min read

The river churns furiously over the dam,

water from spillways funneling in,

joining the raging rampage,

flotsam and jetsam pulled under,

a leaf breaking free here,

jumbled twigs slamming into the crevice

between the rocks.

Gone are the clear waters,

muddy brown scrim scumming into stagnant spaces,

those low places where nothing appears to happen

while fecund fungus and bacteria

devour flesh from carcasses,

crapping out everything they don't need,

filthy fluorescence of fickle fiends

flung back into the irresistible force,

forcing themselves back into the equation,

screaming,

I will not live in a puddle.

Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.

Intertextuality is my passion.

Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.

My words are mine, not a robot’s.

MA English literature, CofC

Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.