I think I was born in a shack on the bayou.
I've memories of it
small wooden porch
creak of a rocking chair
the gentle sway of a lantern
crickets so loud they drown out sorrow
or are sorrow
or eat sorrow.
My eyes are the color of silt
and I've the scent of the water in my hair.
They keep telling me
I was born and raised inland
a city dweller
but I cannot reconcile the fact
I do not live where I ought.
My soul has never lived here.
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