Two poems by Will Limehouse

Regrets in a Salt Marsh at Low Tide

It’s ebbtide in my mind.
Past conversations, still wet
and sticking out of the smelly mud
among the exposed snails and spartina.

Mosquitoes buzz my ears,
delivering choices,
reactions, or lack thereof.
Moist oysters in the open air.
Ready to be picked.
The taste. Slurp until I’m sick.
Slick, slimy, salty.
Taste it still.
Taste it with my foot today.
Red blood meets murky water.
I can’t shake it off.
My mind won’t let me.

Especially saltwater steak sits in the stepped-in shell.
Sometimes you see the gray man,
sometimes you are the gray man.
Test it until taste loses its meaning. Stay it. (Stet.)
These conversations eviscerate my tense steppers.
Thank God, I’m already in the water, I say.
Salt in the wound. It heals.
A tourist yells to watch out for sharks,
I tell them it’s the oysters
that you can’t forget.

Encounters with the Deer Behind My House

Eye to eye, still,
Expressionless, but tense.
Startled, but silent.

Running across snow,
walking in the sun,
standing on leaves.
Friendly confrontation.

Run into you,
run away.

Stepping closer.
What would I even do?

I could kill you,
I have before.

You’ll outlive me.
You’ll bounce through the trees
as long as there are trees.
I’ll smile,
as long as I can smile,
and you’ll smile,
but you can’t smile.
Your eyes will be wide
and your mouth blank,
but I’ll imagine we’re
smiling together
like I do.

At some point
there will be no trees
no snow,
no sun,
no leaves
no eyes,
no mouth, 
and we’ll both be long gone,
smiling. 

 

Will Limehouse is a poet based in Charlotte, North Carolina. He has lived in the Carolinas his entire life and draws inspiration from the Southern environment and the characters who inhabit the region. In his free time, he enjoys going to bluegrass or underground rap concerts, hanging out with friends and staring at bodies of water. His work has been featured in Apocalypse Confidential and the Charlotte Art League.