Hayley Grgurich

Uncertain, Texas

Uncertain hangs thickly in ambiguity
like the clouds of gnats that get stuck
in the unnatural green of the algae
that clings to the banks like
grits to your ribs.

It’s a town
with its brow permanently furrowed.
Perpetually unsure of itself,
but thinkin’ hard on the matter.
Nothing moves.
As if the air,
the grass, the moss, the lake
were stuck in viscous concentration,
the atmosphere abuzz
with ideas and horseflies.

Spanish moss fingers dangle
from the arms of dreamers
who sit cradled in the
hammock hands of live oaks,
staring into the sky,
wondering what to name their home.
And when you oar your way
through the vague waters,
you sweep those mossy fingers
to the side like the thick velvet of a quilt
as you tuck a sleeping child into bed,
never disturbing a thought,
uncertain of the power
of thoughts
born in sleep.