River Man
Adam Livengood
I used to go down to the river on summer nights. Between the space of two willow trees sat an old man who told me stories of travelers drunk on water—stories of queer fantasy, doused in myth and legend, a grandiose mirror of Odysseus’ days. But that voice. That deep and grating speech cut across the sodden air, then fell like Judas leaves among the grass. Star specks and specks of scarred canopy swept across the old man’s face, like the west wind, the eternal breath, the anguish of Atlas in pain, binding mortal to mortal, that never aligns. I never listened.