“On Logan Martin Lake”
by Tina Mozelle Braziel
Like a daughter who has not forgotten the world of her mother’s body,
I know this lake, the springs veining her with cold,
each splash an attempt to get outside herself. I know her wavering reflections ask:
is this how sky looks in that tree, is this how still your home sits.
This lake ain’t nothing but a river fattened
within a stall.The river
is its hidden muscle, its bone.
The dam holds what bit it can
while the river paws at its foundation.
No one fights
a river and wins.
Call me Coosa,
confluence of Etowah and Oostanaula.
I miss what is sinuous: those syllables, my meander
when Alabama meant thicket.
I won’t answer to the stagnant thud
of Logan Martin, Lay Lake, or Neely Henry.
4. Former Farmer, Now Trailer Park Owner
I know the lake as bottom where I once grew collards,
dark waves of them rippling
where that ski boat plows past those piers.
Now I harvest lot rent
from folks wanting nothing more
than to plant themselves between my pines.
Along the rip-rap, casting a rod for bass or crappie, I watch
the drift of the lake, its scaled skin, water seeping into stone, rising into air,
moving through flesh. A Serpent. The lake a mere bend of its body.