Reid Davis

Southern Living Fever Dream

This near-sky is blank. No Angel Oak canopy

to carry the witches’ hair, no cicada songs

Alert us

Continuously at midday.

At her own funeral, my mother hunches over

the sink and stove for hours —

A muscular pattern — Momma, I ask,

what could I do to help?

I wash all her milk glass by hand,

and find my seat near the screen door.

Pool Light Sonata

Nightfall. Dead of June, when lovebugs pause their joining,

and lighting bugs take their place among fallen stars. Bodies land,

squirming on the surface of our pool, jets

gurgle along with orchestral cricket choirs;

Chlorine clears everything. From the shallow end, where I practice

sitting crisscross with breath held tight, a dazzling underwater moon appears.

I cast shadows in so many refractions.

How long can I stay before the fish-child barrier

of my skin expands, before my eyes burn, before he calls me back in —

How long can I stay in the dark disco ball of my own seeing?

Reid Davis is a multi-genre writer and editor currently pursuing her MFA at the University of Idaho. She has been published in Fugue, The Gateway Review, and elsewhere. Her recent work examines her upbringing in the American South with a focus on family, food, bodies, bugs, power, and gender.

Artwork: “I Call Your Mouth July” by Daniel Lurie

Digital