© Rain P. C. Goméz
Used by permission.
All rights reserved.
It is said the Crawfish people were roped, netted and dragged to the surface. And so through water, mud, clay in shades of gray we rose to the shore, buoyant bayou blood. The gray earth opening turning orange it bled, red clay banks bursting, relinquishing us from shadows and water. We gather on bayou banks. How much mud do you hold in your claws grandfather? Let me build a life with it.
I can’t remember the
Last time I danced in the arms of anyone.
I hate remembering it was you.
Crouching in the corner
Weeping are the memories
Of lost loves.
I am brought to remember the stories of the Sufi poets, who sang in whirlwind to their Beloved. Beloved, no physical lover, no tangible body to warm, to roll to sink back into red banks, the warmth of water.
Your language is fluid
It slips around and over
Takes the shape of any container.
Natural dams breaking borders Into greenish gray waters.
We weave baskets of pine straw. We weave baskets of cane. Grandfather moves in pattern, flowing ever outward, claws offering earthen memory. And we dive and rise continuously from waters pushed from the Gulf of Mexico into the interior deltas. Our inherited blood brackish as these bayous . . . neither fresh nor sea-salt; yet natural in its inherent Louisiana topography.
Text prepared by:
- Bruce R. Magee
Goméz, Rain Prud’homme-Cranford. “Old Crawdad the Fisherman.” Smoked Mullet Cornbread Crawdad Memory. Norman, OK: Montgrel Empire Pr., 2012. Print. Copyright © 2015 by Rain P. C. Goméz. Used by permission. All rights reserved.