by Patrick Adkins

it turned me bitter to the taste of lakewater,
flattened my love for even weather,
killed Charlie Hall and left his ghost
wandering the green screen,
while the meteorologist lies
with the same face he used in church.

Charleston is a mean trick:
made me despise Maryland crab cakes
just to come crawling back
for a cracked blue shell,
the soft molted ones,
the delicate, defenseless ones
whose backs burst like promises—
offered up to the river gods of Wando,
those scaled oracles,
who return the favor
by curling their tails
into fry baskets,
feeding the low-country faithful
like communion.

I hate how Charleston taught me
not to fear the wilderness,
how to dance with a hurricane—
pressed to the sheetrock,
while God, that old carnie,
grins and slaps the button
on the Gravitron of the mid-Atlantic.

It confused my body into longing:
for salt behind the ears,
for pluff mud caked
beneath the nails,
between the toes,
a perfume of mildew and memory.

and
Bushee Park,
where the Cooper splits clean through—
a delta of blood,
of runoff and regret.

I hate how everybody loves shrimp and grits now.
I hate how they shut down Justine’s.
I won’t touch another pecan
until I taste her chicken again.

Patrick Adkins was born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina. He now lives in Aiken, South Carolina with his wife, Dr. Chloe Adkins, and their son, Ambrose. His writing often blends the familiar and the surreal, exploring the strange edges of ordinary life.