WHITE BOYS THINK THEY OWN ALL THE CREEKS
by Leah Jones

WHITE BOYS THINK THEY OWN ALL THE CREEKS

But not the mud in the bend of the road creek
It’s the field feedin’ creek——–—————-——–life creek
full of crawdads beneath current-worn rock creek
——–Growin’ up we all played wild
among ice covered creeks
sulfur metallic polluted creeks
tad poles in cupped palms pissin’ off
mama bullfrog creeks.
Those rinsed hair creeks
panning for gold and wet
goose feather creeks.

The white boys were always there first –
or came along soon enough. The first boy to say
Catch up fat ass was a white kid named Jessie –
as I ran skinned-kneed behind four-wheeler
tracks. He won’t be the first boy
———to leave no trace.
Their fires fumed pine castles as we
searched red clay banks for arrowheads with those

gloveless slate-blue hands, dead of winter
he’d dip the artifact baptismally in a quarry
cleaning it on blue jeans thick
with riverbank-mud
squinting his red freckled face at it
like a jeweler.
——–——–——–——–—As if he knows of worth.
——–Its shape
silhouettes last golden light
bourbon thick on the water.
He tossed it back and muttered piece of shit.

I see it sink below brackish water and ask how it fell
the first time- how many animals it speared
how long it was of use – if the blood of its maker still
lived on – in a girl my age.

Not the first boy to say, it’s our land now.

First boy to kiss me without
asking. First to call me chicken-shit when I said
it’s getting dark and my body was pulled hard
into reeds full of katydid high notes – so long that
I smell dirt on the skin of every man. You asked
what are you and you were the first to
call me grease ball. First boy to hit palm flat
as let the girls play
——–left my big sister’s quivering mad lips.

No one ever told him
——–how to love the land or
count his blessing’s
——–even when the creek rises
so he grew up mad for nothin’. Angry
at creek water for payin’ him no mind.
——–——––For spoiling.                   It has no
treasure left to dig up – and trash litters its depths.
He moves on – taking water from all
the creeks not flowing in his direction
not concerned with thirst
——–once my creek dried up.

My name is Leah Jones, I am a full-time military spouse, mother, and trail explorer. Previous works of mine can be found on Ghost City press (July 2021 Issue), Line of Advance Journal (December issue); and forthcoming in the Eunoia Review. I won the 2019 Editors Choice Award with ACHI Magazine for my novel ‘Diving Horses’ and was nominated for Author of the Year with the same publication. My family and I are currently stationed in Georgia, though our hearts reside in North Carolina.

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