City Water

This Was Supposed to be About Everyone. At some time it becomes necessary to admit we don't like each other. This is not a decision we can point to like land. Something has become exhausted and folded down from southwind fisheries, tattered as thunder at the edge of map paper. Or sunlight with seafoam attached. Or a prescription you can't afford to fill. The sky swallows a bird. Marinas wilt on the horizon. You don't need me to tell you that you are mostly water. I had to be by the the shore. Maybe she was right to forget the difference between rush hour and the ocean. Maybe she's always been city water.









S. Preston Duncan is a caregiver, BBQist, and End of Life Doula in Richmond, Virginia. Recent aspirations include becoming the Jason Isbell of literature, stealing Death’s laughter, and transcendental pimento cheese. He is the former Senior Editor of local arts and culture publication, RVA Magazine. His poetry has appeared or been selected to appear in Tulane Review, Circle Show, Levee Magazine, Unstamatic, Coffin Bell Journal, and the Yardstick Books "Water” anthology.

See more of his work in 7.3 and here