Omen

When I reel a catfish
to the bank, I touch
my neck, searching for the ghost
of a gill plate.

             In a dream I’ve dreamed
             eight times, I find my brother’s
             body tangled like fishing line
             in a logjam.

It’s too late before most of us
realize where the blood’s
church resides.

           I’ve decided that to suffocate
           in air is no more cruel
           than to drown in water.

Long ago we spoke
with sky and stars,
shedding spines each spring.
Now our skulls weigh us down.

           Through our mothers’ wombs
           we tail-splash, wiggle out
           like foam lines in the current
           of the deepest pools.

To warn us, the dead write
letters edged in black
and send them back.
through beetle teeth.

           To read their notes
           I tear away
           pine bark and trace
           the furrows.

This is the cursive
alphabet that leads
to every death.

           With more than six
           inches of rain, my mother
           and father floated
           from their graves.

Before I drew breath,
my grandmother
foretold it.