Natchez Green
I was eleven, walking out past Silver Street to
the river’s edge, headed “under the hill,” a spot
infamous for men who no longer exist and their
transient killers. Some say a ghost woman walked
the Mississippi, her body anchored by gold from
her lover so she could lay beside him at the bottom
where the bottles turned to jewels. Looking out, I
saw something flash, deep emerald, and unbroken,
glittering in the river silt, waiting like a patient miracle.
Expecting Laffite’s treasure map. Clutching the cork
with my teeth, little boy hands twisted. The sharp too
sour smell gave me a headache, and I stood hearing
phantoms as the wind made the bottle coo. In the river
debris, a hand summoning me to the water. I threw
the bottle, which it accepted, swirling the rank liquor,
towing it further and further from my shore.
About the Author: Robert A. Morris lives near Baton Rouge and works as a teacher. Besides poetry, he also writes fiction and bashes out the occasional song on his blue Stratocaster. His work has appeared in The Main Street Rag, Pear Noir, and The Chaffin Review among others. He is in the final stages of editing a chapbook titled Descending to Blue that he would like to see published in the near future. For updates, please visit his blog https://robertamorrisblog.wordpress.com
Image Credit: William A. Faust “Natchez Trace Parkway, Located between Natchez, MS & Nashville, TN, Tupelo, Lee County, MS” (1997)
As It Ought To Be 