down the red river from the mouth of his
throat to just below his chest. His scar, a memory
of humanity, an actuality of his. I pretend a crab
tries to anchor its claws to the outer banks
as the flow, the rapids rush it hopeless; it reaches
for rock, branch, or flesh, though ever drifts farther
away. And further down. And it cobbles
over the thousands of blue, yellow, and green reeds,
which sift through the sand and pebble beneath
the river’s roar. These are his connectors, his veins that once
interviewed and interlocked his heart with his lungs,
to his soul. If this crab— if I could
just grasp and control these leads to life, try to
bring him from the depths, try, as well, to save myself…

I doubt
he knows rivers as Hughes knew rivers, but he heard
a splash and wake. And he may be, now, speaking of rivers
with Hughes and others. And though He witnessed a human
inevitability, perhaps, just possibly, this scar is, instead,
the beginning, a rough outline, his rendering of the Colorado,
the Rio Grande, or just the aqueduct through California.
Just maybe it’s his story, a symbol
to be.

Donovan Hufnagle is husband, father, writer, and professor of English and Humanities, in that order. He moved from Southern California to Arizona to Fort Worth. His recent writings have appeared in Americana Popular Culture Magazine, Shufpoetry, Kitty Litter Press, Carbon Culture, Amarillo Bay, Borderlands, Tattoo Highway, The New York Quarterly, Rougarou, and others. His new poetry book, The Sunshine Special, will be available March, 2018.