by David R. Cravens
just off Owls Bend of Current River
in nineteen seventy-seven
Henry Gore was the last living soul
still on Blair Creek
where he’d stepped off his porch
to drink from the same spring
for seventy-four years—
and I have a coffee cup
I’d left in the sink of my old cabin
a couple rivers over
with dishes from my grandmother—
this was back in ninety-four
before I foreclosed
went back to college
worked through three girlfriends
seventeen jobs
traveled the world—
just back from Italy
where dying in the home you were born
is still not that uncommon
I floated down to my old place
tied my boat to the dock
hacked my way through heavy brush
and found my antique dishes
waiting as I’d left them eleven years before
(save for the mouse shit and spiders)
and on the way back I stopped
rinsed the cup in a spring
filled it and drank
wondering all the while who’d said:
“you can never go home”
and I remember thinking
that it must have been an American
Last updated February 10, 2012