Leaving Louisiana: A Theory of Adaptation

It is 1 a.m. and I am imagining rowing in an orange canoe
across our living room in New Mexico, past an old
wooden shipping box we use as a coffee table and through
the gray marsh carpet. I think you brought the rain here,
you say. I gather it’s true: I did last time. I imagine egrets
swooping from my unfolding body, losing moss, the veil
of the deep South slipping from my skin like camouflage
as I drift further into the life we share. And I want to hold
it all inside of me a little longer, these dissipating
expressions of southern mimicry I’ve gained over
the period of time I spent away from you. Leaving behind
our aquatic room, I make my way to the long window
overlooking arid land and dust-covered railroad tracks.
I wonder how long I can foster this water-species of
perishing mechanisms clinging to the nets of my head like
severed                           wriggling                           tails.

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