You tell me there are neighborhoods
flooded under Lake Lanier—a fable,
a Pripyat lagoon, with heavy bowls
still perched on tables and dreams
tucked tight beneath sheets of beds
the way your hands hide themselves
in my hair like forgetting,
trace my lips like a prayer.
Doorways fall open for us here.
We slip the world from our skins, pull
heavy curtains closed against eyes of
others, press husks of promises
between pages of guides on housekeeping
and rare birds.
We wake when the current turns cold,
pull up two chairs, cut thick
slices of old meat, soft potatoes, and
fingers to trade for what we stole.
The catfish lounges hungry at our toes,
begs for scraps, but you swallow me whole.
Hannah Chapple is a PhD student at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, studying English with a concentration in Creative Writing. She is the Assistant Poetry Editor for Rougarou. She has been published in the Agnes Scott College Writers Festival Competition Magazine. Hannah is originally from Rochester, New York.