Issue Thirty-Five - Winter 2020

Chattooga

By Young Smith

In the river, the water moves
swiftly over moss-covered stones.

On the banks, rhododendrons and magnolias,
their branches dragging in the current.

Trout hover in the shadows of a pool,
their bellies on the gravel floor.

There are little swirls on the surface
where insects alight, and reflected

in the water’s face, the stacked rocks
of the moutainside above us.

The sun will set soon. It is time to go
home. But before we do — my father

and I stand silent together, watching
the moon rise yellow through the trees.

Years from now, though it is my own as well,
I will refuse to speak his name — but tonight,

my father and I wade into that mountain, swim
our hands through its broken-toothed peak.

Copyright 2020 Smith

Young Smith has received fellowships from the NEA and the Kentucky Arts Council. His poems have appeared in SHARK REEF, Poetry, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Iowa Review, Pleiades, Crazyhorse, The Harvard Divinity Bulletin, American Literary Review, Arts & Letters, Atlanta Review, The Midwest Quarterly, The New Orleans Review, and other publications. He is author of the collection, In a City You Will Never Visit, published by Greencup Books. He is an associate professor of English at Eastern Kentucky University, where he is a core faculty member with the Bluegrass Writers Studio, a low-residency MFA program.

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